Dark Side of the Moon
by KatxValentine
Summary: -First in the Dark Side of the Moon series- Gotham City is the new home to lackluster journalist Harvey Tinkle, a failure in most respects. But when she meets Cleveland, her neighbor, she's in for more than she bargained for. Enter: the Joker.
1. Guy With the Face

This is proof that I've completely and totally stopped taking myself seriously. So, a friend of mine brought up the idea...when he's not...out…you know, Jokerizing, where does the Joker live? So, just for fun and for strictly amusing laughs, these are the tales of the Joker (of course, under the alias Cleveland Roger Punsworth, which can be translated into Cleave R. Pun, or Clever Pun, since I got off my ass to consider this for a second) and a haphazard next-door neighbor who he basically pals around with. No relationship of any strict sense will be involved in this—I just see him being an unpleasantly social guy, in the kind of way that makes you feel awkward. I own nothing, except the name Cleveland R. Punsworth and Harvey Tinkle who is, amusingly, not a male. Bear with me, writing the Joker as a _person_ sans Batman interaction is a little complex, I'm working on getting the hang of this. On with the show!

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Fuck-hole. That is the only way I can describe this place. I am moving into a fuck-hole. People have told me that paying rent on Gotham apartments is second only to paying rent on apartments in New York City. In this experience, I'm believing it.

My name is Harvey Tinkle and, yes, I am female. I get a good enough laugh at my own expense, just on how many people find it so funny. I used to get angry when I was a kid, I used to seriously consider legally changing it, then I thought about it and I realized, who cares?

I've lived on the outskirts on Gotham my entire life, swaying to and fro between country and city, dabbling in only on trips with my mother and father to see the occasional show or concert. All the action exists in the heart of the dark borough, and though I've never liked it, it's the only place one can go to make something of themselves _really._

Armed with a meager degree in journalism, an array of profane statements and a mildly sarcastic wit, I have secured myself an apartment in Gotham Heights. The clichés abound that I've learnt to tolerate, moving in is my new, thrilling experience.

And this, my friends, is a fuck-hole.

I will admit, I'm not a clean person. I leave things lying around all over the place, I never straighten up, if it were up to me my mother's rules of 'cleaning up' before company wouldn't exist. I see, now, that this is going to require I do _something._

But now to the current situation. My scrawny self trying to drag up the stairs a very large suitcase. I am considerably smaller than this suitcase. And apparently, no one in Gotham City is halfway decent enough to assist me when I glance up the staircase in wide-eyed fear. And after I mustered up my courage, I grabbed a tight hold of that handle and yes, by _God_, I pulled. I would assume the feelings in the base of my spine were it disconnecting from my actual spinal cord itself, but with a triumphant bump the large bag made it up stair after stair.

And then I heard it.

"Ya havin' some trouble there, girly?" When I glance up, I can't help but stifle a considerably disturbed look. The man glancing down at me from his open door, right at the top of the stairs, is a lanky creature, clad in nothing but a pair of heart-patterned boxers. He's not defined, fairly pale, and he looks thin enough that he either refuses to eat or satiates himself on only celery. His face—oh his _face._ But what do you say to things like that? In each cheek is embedded what seems to be an intense incision that must have been made by a serrated blade of some form. The scars are deep, and though he seems to grin they make the expression a smile. It's wide, wicked, and his dark green eyes glimmer artfully to accentuate it. There's something about him that makes me _terrified._

I grunt. "Yeah," and hop up another stair. I can tell he's going to be the greatest next-door neighbor I've ever had. He's already so eager to carry my bags. "You just gonna stand there?"

"Darwinian Theory, girly. Only the strong survive," Does he greet everyone like this? "If I helped you, I'd be screwing with the natural selection and all that crap."

I grunt. Again. And finally manage to drag the immense, exploding object to the top of the stairs. The man's strange, curly hair falls in funny blonde wisps, but I swear I can see the tinge of what is a bad dye job to what I _also_ swear is the color _green._

He pauses, licks his lips like surveying, like a predator to the kill. His tongue is serpentine, darts out of his mouth for a flicker moment. He fidgets like a stupid kid.

And I just stand there. In room one-oh-three, I can see a dully shifting television, the dim, scratchy light reflecting on a badly upholstered, maroon-colored couch. Maroon? I hate that color.

Room one-oh-four is my brand new home. Only problem is, mister 'girly' with the face won't let me get in.

Comically, I watch him step back into his own doorway. His shoulders drop, making his already notable slouch more obvious; his arms leveling out one over the other and he drops his tone a few octaves. It sounds like a drawl, "After you, girly."

And this, I imagine, is the reason the ad for this apartment has been in the paper for _years._


	2. Irritating Guy With the Face

This is really a fuck-hole. In all dead honesty, it truly is. The bed is shoved to the far right wall, the mattress decaying in all its grotesque glory. The kitchenette is hardly more than a depressing stove. I shudder to consider the state of the bathroom.

And then my worst nightmare tumbles in.

"Well..." he pauses and from a cardboard box yanks what I know as my college diploma. He scrutinizes it, and then laughs like a hyena, "Harvey Tinkle, you new in town? You look a little greenhorn-Ish to me."

He carelessly drops the frame and I listen to the jingle-Crack-Shatter it makes. Flinch. I would growl, but I'm not exactly threatening. If I lose my temper, I'm sure I'll anally violate him with a knife. I just grit my teeth.

"Do...-You- have a name?"

"Ah ah ah, Harvey, this game show is about -you--" and he stops, skeptically yanking a pair of boxers from a box. They're patterned with little guitars. I love guitars. "Trying to prove your name, here?"

Normally, my nostrils would flare. I would blow around a bit of my own smoke, but this disfigured madman seems like someone I don't want to cross.

"Do you have a reason for being in here?" my attempt at turning around fails, when his chin tucks into my shoulder and his dark green eyes swerve my way. He licks his lips, a genuine anaconda.

"Well...uh...ya see," he pauses, glances up like he's thinking hard. I'm frozen, and so uncomfortable, "I s'pose I was trying to be a hospitable neighbor."

His skin is abnormally cold. Not to mention the fact that I don't like him in this vicinity. My flesh crawls.

"Well...you're not being very hospitable."

"Ooh, gee, we've got a certain sense of nerve, just blurting these things out, don't we, miss Haaaaahvey?" he accents my name, a southern drawl, and the scars at his cheeks seem to twitch in delight. In the back of his throat, he's chuckling, chortles that are slowly gaining on laughs. He may as well light a fire under me. I'm half enraged. He's a cheeky fucker, isn't he?

"Nice place ya got here. Mind if I take a load off?" he subtly swoops himself onto the dilapidated couch. It said there was 'Finely furnished furniture' included. Is this that stuff? The wallpaper's peeling; it's tan under the tacky floral print.

Oh, hell, if only murder was legal.


	3. Unsettling Guy With the Face

Hey, everybody! I can put an author's note in this chapter because now I can punctuate. Chapter two was uploaded from my cell phone with the help of a friend. Fuck college orientation, I swear. Anyway, I have to thank my friend Andrea for furthering this idea, because without I wouldn't have it in the first place. Appreciation to all those who reviewed and looked this fanfic over—without an audience, where would I be? Hah. Audience. As if. Anyway, on with the show!

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Welcome to what is fast becoming the worst experience of my life. My neighbor's eyes lazily turn my way, sluggish, and he lethargically allows a hand to fall limp, dangling over the side of the couch.

"So, you've gotta degree in journalism, do you? Well, what do you do with that degree, other than use it for self satisfaction and a couple chuckles, here and there? Gotta be _somethin' _ya do." My jaw sets in an iron line. His feet brush the top of a cardboard box, and just like he owns the place he relaxes.

If beating up your neighbor is a job, put me down for an application. What is _wrong_ with this guy? I hate him too much to bear. I already fantasize about putting him through an unwilling tracheotomy.

"I write _articles."_ I snort, roll my eyes. I really can't stand this. Is there a way he can possibly just float on out of here? What ungodly creature is he?

"Well, isn't that just special? And what do these," The way he licks his lips frightens me, it elicits a subtle _pop_ of a sound, "_articles_ consist of?"

"It's a tabloid. They're nothing special, tabloids never are. Now can you please let me unpack?"

"Well, I'm not in your way. I'm all the way over here, away from your boxes. So who's stopping you?" I casually notice all his qualities. When he's amused, the scars, the disfigurements, whatever they are, they twitch as though they act like synthetic corners of his mouth. Whenever he laughs, it's obnoxious, hyena-like, and sometimes it sounds like he can't inhale right. It's more like an asthma attack than a chuckle. His eyes are wild, like a caged animal that seems to mean less harm and more play. Like a lion who means to bat around its pal and, in the process, shred it to pieces.

"You know, in a few minutes I'm just gonna repo—"

"Oh, what? Report me?" He's in my face again, right there. He towers over me, I've always been small, and he grins idly from ear to ear, from slit-cheek to slit-cheek. "Report me to _whom_, Miss Harvey? No one knows who you even _are_, and the landlord of this rat-hole? Doesn't care an inch."

I feel him breathe. It smells like an intermingling of coffee grounds and strawberry mentos. I don't know why I notice these things. They're as repulsive as his misshapen face.

"But, I'll leave ya all alone," His hands fly up, almost defensive. Is he bipolar or something? "I'll let you unpack in solitary peace. I'll be back later when your mood's not as _iffy._"

(Later that evening, after much unpacking in _almost_ peace)

The dark is unpleasant in this place. It feels of rats and spiders here, factually. I feel so nervous that the pit of my stomach has this sensation close to dropping out. It almost makes me flinch—

And then I realize the most terrible fact I have ever realized.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. _Goes my wall. Much to my horror, my bed is located directly next to the wall _he _resides beside. So he can clearly wake me up whenever he wants to.

I pause, think, something catches my eye. _Knock. Knock. Knock. _Goes my wall continually. And there's this awful cheer of "Howdy, _neighbor!"_

I ignore him. I stare out the window. What's that…_blob?_ I'm up from bed, then, in my boxers and an oversized t-shirt, and I glare right into the dark outside. It looks like a _huge rat_ is crouched on my ledge. A thousand and one ideas overwhelm me. What if it's a mutant rat, or some foreign species of bat? Like…mutant bat? What do I do?

I chew at my lip, and then sneak over to my bed again. Hesitate. Do I really have to do this? My hand rises to knock, but it hovers there. Do I have the nerve?

"Hey…uhh…neighbor? I need some…help over here…mind…wandering in again?"

Has he been standing outside my door the entire time? Now he just swoops in, those obnoxious boxers the only article of clothing on him, and he quizzically examines me with this predatory humor.

"There's a…rat…outside my window. It's….huge."

He inspects, suddenly. Splinter Cell style he slides over to the window and peeks out the corner, eyes narrowing. His nose scrunches, and he sniffs the glass like that'll make sense out of something. Suddenly, he collapses into a fit of hyena-laughs again, his head falling back. He's either ecstatic or _completely_ amused.

"That's not a rat!" He cheers happily, pointing. He snorts through a giggle, "That's a _freak!"_


	4. Enraging Guy With the Face

Wow, this is doing so much better than I assumed. XD I'm almost surprised…well, I _am_ surprised. It will get slightly more serious as time goes on—well, a lot more, because now I have a proper plot-line all thought out. I'm so excited for this one, too. I'm nerdy like that, though. Anyways, thanks to everyone who even looked at this story. This was a random thought that's slowly becoming so much more. I've got huge plans for Harvey, too. Thank you so much, once again! I love all of you guys. And I own nothing—well, except, technically, Cleveland and Harvey.

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"_That's not a rat!" He cheers happily, pointing. He snorts through a giggle, "That's a __freak!"_

I can only stare at him in confusion. I…suppose he's excited? When _isn't_ he excited, seems to be the proper question. I just keep on this open-mouthed expression and shove him aside a bit to stare into the dark. The blob of what looks like giant rat is stationary, just a few inches from my window. It's dangling on a ledge. This is just fantastic.

"But…what…_is it…_then?" I keep eyeing him like he's got things crawling out of his ears. I don't understand him at all.

"Battsy! The Bat! The _Batman!"_ He breaks into peals of laughter to the point where he turns a halfway shade of pink, snorting through obscene giggles. The scars at his cheeks seem to turn some odd kind of purple, like scars generally do in the cold, and he's got his wrist shoved against his nose like he can't stifle his riotous chuckles. Forgive me, I guess, for not cracking up, too.

I nod and just manage out a "Y-Yeah…Umm…what the fuck is _The Batman?"_

"He's the caped crusader, the vigilante, the masked, rodent-type protector of _allllll_ Gotham City!" He makes this eccentric sort of wing-flap with his arms, and then stumbles back a few steps like he's lost his balance. He's holding his stomach, now, because he's nearly jerking back tears. I can't help it—my lips force into a grin. This is amusing.

"So he's—"

"A guy who enjoys spandex, Miss Harvey!" Even _I_ snort at that. Seriously, this is ridiculous. There is a _guy_ in a _costume_ on my _ledge._

"Why is he—_here, _then?" Suddenly, he grabs me by the shoulder, slams me against the wall at his side and shoves his cheek against mine, both of us forced into the cold, dirty glass of my window. I really hate that he does this, already.

"You see, the elusive _Batus Jackassus_, commonly referred to as 'The Batman' has several hot-spots around his territory. Where he roosts, his own personal nests tend to be well-shaped corners at which he may survey the world below. He only comes down to _huuuunt_, and every so often to attempt to mate with those of the _homo sapien_ species. These acts generally fail being that he sounds like a rhinoceros in heat."

I can't breathe. He's too close in my vicinity. It's making my stomach do flip-flops. I've not been this nervous in a long while. He still smells like strawberry mentos and coffee grounds, but up close the scent transforms. Now it's something more explicit, more animal…maybe masculine despite his flamboyant tendencies? His grip is stronger than I ever expected. It's a death-lock, in fact, which I wouldn't have guessed just by looking at him. And all I want is for him to let go of me.

"So…what do I…like…do about him?" My eyebrow shoots straight up. He spins me around, whirls me so he can drop his unkempt, awkward hands at my shoulder. His hair is tousled, like every inch of him follows suit to his uncomfortable insanity. Is it insanity, though? I wonder all these things while he licks his lips and shakes me gently, rattling like I'm a student not paying attention to the professor.

"You wanna know what you do? You do _this!" _Without warning, he grabs my little glass paperweight up from a cardboard box, throws open the window, pitches it right at the giant rat and shoves me forward. Yes, I almost fall out the window, but I only stare like a deer in the headlights. The giant rat looks over at me, piercing eyes the only visible thing from a sea of black. I shudder in discomfort, and my paperweight shatters into a meaningless pile of shards on the cold concrete below.

It's only moments until I turn back to look at my neighbor-from-hell, and I see him departing through my front door. He's laughing harder than ever before, and I turn blue in the face. He's testing my patience.

_Swoosh!_

A sudden gust of wind. The giant rat, suddenly, is gone without a trace. There's only the foreboding billow of my curtains. And no next-door-guy.

Not to mention I'm out a paperweight.


	5. Completely Unhelpful Cleveland

Goodness, I'm still loving the fact that no one hates me yet. XD I'm not going for the serious angle on this just yet, however, fret not, readers, for when I _do_ add in the serious angle, I'll accent it with good ol' Harvey-humor. Anyway, thanks to all who've looked over and read this, I deeply appreciate it. I've got every angle of this planned out, now just to put it down in word form… anyway, I own no one, except technically Cleave and Harvey.

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Sleep. The elusive beast. The creature that slips artfully through my fingers. Once the mutant bat is gone, I can curl up into my bed and allow the method of silence to overtake me I have been so longing for. My next-door neighbor seems to have calmed himself. I wonder how much valium _that _took. That man seriously needs some kind of tranquilizer.

And sweet sleep. Wonderful, warm, calm, gentle—

AH. AH. NO. THIS CAN'T BE TRUE. IT CAN'T.

Suddenly, I'm assaulted. There's this…_blinding_ light, and I flail until I roll out of bed, my pillow clutched against me like a lifeline. There's a crash when I hit the ground, and I swear to whatever unholy God there is that I'm dead. Very dead.

My apartment floods, suddenly, with an unearthly, bright light. I have to squint, groping around helplessly for my glasses. They've fallen and, now, all I can make out is—

No. Please. _No more._

In my doorway there's a gangly, pale figure in those damn cute boxers. He's nothing but a fuzzy blob, but I know who he is. Rather, I know who he is and I don't _want_ to know who he is.

"My name's Cleveland, ya know." That's random. I'm still trying with all my might to force myself to focus enough to be able to see. It burns my eyes. "My name's Cleveland."

He's murmuring it excitedly, and I nod, grimacing. What the hell is that light? When I open the dingy, repulsive shade of my grotesque, filthy window, I see a shape that seems similar to a…bat? Why is this thing shining _right_ in my window?

I must be in the path of its…whatever.

"Lookin' for something?" He dangles an object in my field of vision playfully, and when I reach up to get it, he pulls it higher. I'm not in this mood. Not a bit. "Do a trick, then you can have a reward."

Instead, I shove him square in the stomach and he drops whatever he's holding. He's startled by my action, but I notice that not an inch of him has moved. He's like a brick wall, and the push with all my tiny strength doesn't even shake him. He's built like a deceptively scrawny truck. ..He was holding my glasses for ransom. How nice.

"What the fuck is in my room, _Cleveland?_" Didn't I lock my door? I could swear I locked my front door…how did he get in here?

"It's Battsy's signal! Guess they didn't put that in the paper, eh? Yeah. It's real bright, ain't it? He's always obnoxious, no wonder everyone hates him. Interruptin' innocent little journalists' sleep with that bug-zapper of his." His grin makes me want to knock him in the face. I just let my hand loosely clench and unclench. Fist, then calm. I'm so frustrated it hurts. I'm going to get an ulcer.

"Can I fucking _block _it?" His head falls back again. That laugh makes me angrier and angrier with each passing second.

"Well, ya know, if you can buy some lead curtains and maybe an elephant to stand in front of the window—"

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

I want to explode. And he keeps talking, but all I can do is stare at the wall. I feel so stressed, I feel ridiculous, I feel like I'm going to collapse.

And he keeps talking.


	6. The Joker's Game: First Move

Well, people keep telling me 'make the chapters longer' so I should really listen, shouldn't I? Anyway, in this chapter, poor, dear Harvey is going to get to make acquaintance with someone as annoying as Cleveland, but far, far more dangerous. See: The Joker. How is that possible, you may ask…well, it'll all make sense as this continues. Anyway, thanks to everyone for the reviews! I appreciate all the feedback I can get. I own no one, except Cleave and Harvey. Oh, and search around this chapter enough, you'll find a Batman Returns reference.

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My feeling of victorious self-satisfaction disappears when the morning comes. The sensation I had when I moved in here, that away-from-my-parents-all-on-my-own sensation, melts away completely. I have nothing left but the shattered remains of how badly I want to sleep.

I've made a sad deal with a miserable man to write a sad news column for a sad tabloid. All of this makes appropriate how sad my life really is. So I throw on a red t-shirt and a pair of ancient jeans, ripped, shredded not-so-strategically in gaping holes at the knees. My shoes are aged beyond belief, a pair of low-top, black sneakers. I toss my light hair into a clip, it's got a slightly faded auburn sheen. In the sun, it's vaguely reddish. I can't count how many times I knock off my glasses.

My editor, a man I've never met in person, is the definition of depressing. He's a short, fat, bald guy with grubby little hands who constantly tries to make eye contact, then desperately looks away. His dark brown eyes are framed behind thick, black-rimmed glasses. He clicks his teeth when he talks. It makes my toes curl in discomfort. My lack of sleep has magnified the world.

I have a week, he tells me, to report something of good use. It's a dollar a word, which means that I'm going to make the most out of this. I'm usually a lazy writer, I'll need to step it up. I need to pay rent, after all.

I have learned the area in which lies Gotham Heights is the dreariest, mud-hole filled with scum ever to exist. Which means I have to sludge _through_ that mud-hole to get home. I look over my shoulder every few seconds, nervous, unwilling to set my sights on where I'm going, and suddenly—

Oof. Excuse me, watch where you're—

What in hell is that?

"The fuck are you?" There's a man staring down at me, suddenly. He's tall, his eyes are slathered in what looks like kohl, and his face is painted sheet-white. His lipstick is bloody red, and it forms a demented, slick line from cheek to cheek. His hair hangs limp, curly, over-gelled, and it's the same shade achieved when one dyes their hair with only the use of kool-aid. He wears a cheap looking, dark purple suit, and it clashes with this tacky, mint-green, long-sleeved shirt beneath. The vest is plum, and so is his tie. I want to laugh, but this clown seems to mean business. My heart beats in my throat.

"I think, I should…maybe.." Suddenly, his hands, his powerful hands, squish at my cheeks. I feel myself rattle, every inch of me shakes. He slams me to the brick wall beside me. The motion is fluid, and he presses me there only held by the face. I dangle off the ground. I'm pathetically short, "…be asking you just that, shouldn't I, girly? See this, here, this…place?"

He pauses between words. His tongue darts out, the same ruby shade as his lips. He licks at them, fades away, smudges bits of the makeup. I can't do anything but stare, but when he shakes me my glasses tumble off my face. What do I say? I'm terrified, he's like some kind of homicidal clown.

"You got ears, there, girly? It's my territory you're walkin'." I wish he would just withdraw from his persistent spot _at my face._ He breathes right on my skin, and I flinch like he'll hit me. "And if a guy's gonna mark territory, he's gotta let everyone in it _know_ it's all his. Am I right, or am I right, girly?"

My stomach is caving in on itself. I don't know what to do—

"Look. At. Me." My eyes widen, and I go to say something, to snap, somehow. All I can do is squeak, because suddenly, my skin is freezing. He toys a some shiny, silver thing along my mouth, from my cheek and across my lips, then back the other way, "Look. At. _Me._"

I do it, then. My dark eyes lock with his. I can't tell what color they are, all the shadow caked across the lids dissipates the shade. No matter how much they twitch, desperately try to pull away, I won't move my gaze.

"Now thaaaaaaat's more like it, _Haaarvey._ You're gonna do me a big favor, girly. You're gonna go right on home and write up a nifty little piece, all about your experience with the _in-com-pree-hen-si-ble_ Joker. And you're gonna give it to that editor of yours so his sweaty self can publish it. Got me, girly?" His voice is so nasal it drags along. He reminds me of a snake or something, and though I want so bad to chuckle he has every inch of me stuck in fear. He's going to destroy me, I figure. I've lived here for two days, already I'm marked by a psychopath. "You don't have to…uh…talk, I understand you're stricken speechless by my devastating looks. You can _nod_, though."

At the word 'nod', the knife jerks in a little, enough to make me yelp and almost impale _myself_ with the thing. Regardless, I _do_ nod, and I cough harshly. Suddenly, I let out another pathetic sound. He crams something in my mouth, and the edges push at my lips uncomfortably.

When I find myself stupid and confused on the ground, shaking still, trying to collect myself from my near-death carnival experience, I hack and spit whatever I was biting out. It's a card…a playing card?

I examine it, my nose wrinkling. The Joker? The print reads 'Hello there', but the 'o' and the 't' are crossed out. In a moment of delirium and trying to rid myself of the stale taste of cardboard or whatever playing cards are made out of, I realize the words say 'Hell here'.

This is just great, I mutter, just wonderful. It's only been two days…not even, a day and a _half_. In a day and a half I've acquired a bastard for a next-door neighbor, made pseudo acquaintance with a guy who runs around in spandex and had my life threatened by a _genuine _freak.

When I pocket the card, my head still spinning, I wonder how much more I'll be seeing of the transvestite with a sense of humor.


	7. Not So Bitchy Cleveland

I really _do_ love all the feedback for this, I'm really honored this is getting so well-liked. I appreciate everyone's input, and I appreciate everyone taking the time to even _look_ at this fanfic. From here on, I'm going to have to explain that, psychologically and how they work, Cleveland and the Joker are two _entirely_ different personality-entities. By no means is Cleveland fuzzy or warm, but he's certainly got a soul in there, somewhere. I have no clue where this idea came in, but if it seems out of character and I explain why, I'll kind of wreck the plot I have planned XD I'd rather not do that, though, so here's what's coming out of this. Harvey's mine, so is Cleave. I'm getting to like them both quite a bit. And trust me, I've got a good pile of crap planned for poor Harvey, this is _only_ the beginning.

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It's like marching to a funeral. I take the repulsive, death-box of an elevator up to my floor and perpetually touch at my lips. It's taking a good chunk of time to banish away the feel of cold steel. The threat looms, and my paranoia forces me to wonder if he's not watching me persistently with every time I breathe. Why did the transvestite with a sense of humor…the…'Joker' get so badly under my skin?

Relax, Harvey, people can't watch you from around corners when there are no corners _to_ watch from around.

..Did that statement just make any sense at all?

…Whatever.

The elevator whirrs open with a dull sound. Everything makes me flinch. Something, though, some strange thing about the transvestite with a sense of humor seems so familiar. Worst of all, it's familiar in a _bad_—

Pause. The flimsy lock on my door clicks, and I push it open. However, something doesn't feel quite right. I feel confused, and I slowly realize that the box I kept on my bed is…gone. There's a paper where it was, a tiny sheet that has an arrow sketched all over the front. I pick it up, and I wonder if it's laced with asbestos. Just like it says, I look up—

And I hate my life to the max.

The cardboard box, containing fuck only knows what, is stuck completely to the ceiling. The bottom, or the top (as if I'm thinking clearly) is duct-taped so copiously that I'm sure a whole roll must have been used. There's obvious weight bearing down on it, and I wonder by what risk I'll slit it open. There's visible globs of crazy glue dried around the edges, and suddenly all my paranoid fear melts into incredible anger.

But all I can do is stare.

Stare and listen to the suppressed peals of laughter exploding from next-door.

He's crazy-glued my valuables to the ceiling.

I expect myself to be enraged. Under normal circumstances I'd be vengeful, violent, hateful, and psychotic. In a typical situation I'd go bat-shit mad and rip it to pieces. I'd lose it, or at least scream.

In this second, however, I have no will in me left with which to scream. So I do the only thing any female would do under situations of great stress, hormones and frustration. I begin to cry. At first, it's a small sound, a whiny, quiet, and desperate. As it goes on it gets worse and worse, a high-pitched, nasal noise that busts into puppy-whimpers followed by great, horrible sobs. I don't know what to do, and in my panic the only thing I'm capable of is something reminiscent of a breakdown. My luck is like a vicious dog waiting for its chance to bite me in the ass.

"Surpri—" My next-door neighbor the funny man peeks in, but when he glances down at me his big, stupid grin seems to fall a little. My best guess is that he feels guilty, though I know it's not guilt. He's disappointed with me. He's disappointed with my behavior. Guys like him don't feel bad.

"Just please," I wheeze, in between sounds of harsh, strangling pain. I sound like a cat being asphyxiated, "Please fucking leave me alone."

Before I can even finish the sentence, the front door to my apartment shuts with a click and all I can see is his bare, pale back retreating.

I can only cry hysterically and glare up at the box that taunts me from the ceiling. I'm too short to reach, if I try to cut it open I'll break everything I own and only succeed in hurting myself. I'm living in a fuck-hole, I can't sleep because there's a blinding light in my window, I have no money to go anywhere else, my parents have no place to take me in_to_ anymore, my next-door neighbor is a complete psycho who's already making my life a living hell, there's a crazy guy in clown make-up pushing a blade into my face…

And all of this only succeeds in making me have an episode. It's been a day and a half (why do I consistently harp on this fact?) and already I'm having mental breakdowns.

How's _that_ for 'Surprise!', fuck-face?

I suppose I can't unpack.

I can kill myself, though.

Who am I kidding?

"Ya know," There's a sudden, nasal tone I'm familiar with. I'm becoming too familiar with it, anyway, "I always wondered, since it takes heat to dry up crazy glue, what'd happen if you tried to paste something down in Antarctica? Would it stick?"

I just shrug. Cleveland or whoever-the-fuck-he-is grins at me, his arms awkwardly swaying at his sides. He creaks forward and back on the tips of his toes, then rocks on his heels. He needs to do something with his body, I suppose, all the time. He's a fidgety kind of guy. I don't know why I notice these things.

"I'd say it'll take a full-sized freezer to get that box down. Maybe Battsy's willing to help, I'm pretty sure his attitude could do the trick."

I'm confused.

Does he really feel bad?

I have no fucking clue about this guy.

"Ya know, you oughta smile more. 'Round you, with how you act, I'd figure right off the bat life's a funeral all the time. Ho, right off the _bat!"_ He cackles to himself, but doesn't even move. I just glare from the middle of the floor, but it's not like I've stopped crying at all. "Maybe it's…uh..._your_ attitude we should be dislodging that box with, Miss Tinkle."

Something sparks my nerve, but I ignore it. The way he just said 'uh' in the midst of that sentence is familiar, but I pass it off as déjà vu. Who am I kidding? It's nothing…


	8. Mildly Helpful Cleveland

I swear to goodness, every time I update this I get happier and happier. I'd love to thank you all, and I will, gradually, chapter by chapter (promise) XD, but for now I'm just going to answer as many questions as I can without giving away my plot.

**Sushi Bowl: **Special thanks for justifying the idea of a Bat/Joker-Cleave/Harvey triangle (I constantly have to shy my thoughts from thinking Harvey _Dent _XD) and maybe prodding me enough to not be afraid of pursuing it. No worries, considering I'll do everything in my power to avoid Harvey becoming the 'likeable' heroine. By the time we're through with this tale, I think she'll be anything but. I deeply appreciate it, thank you so very much. For the record, no, Cleveland isn't a pile of cuddles and love, but he's a good guy in a weirdly complicated way. You'll see, you'll see.

**Kinokokichigai: **Yes, his Cleveland habits _do_ mesh wonderfully with his Joker ones. Or are his Joker habits meshing with his Cleveland ones? I don't even know anymore…

**Teenage. Anomaly: **Essentially, you'll see why Cleveland and the Joker act so separately. No, they're definitely not different people, but there's a reason he acts so drastically shifted as Cleveland. You'll see. As I'm so fond of saying, 'it's all part of the plan'.

**ACleverName: **You need a shout-out, because when I read your name it definitely made me smile XD

**Harlequin Sequins: **You are, without a doubt, one of the most intensely sweet reviewers I have ever crossed. I thank you tremendously for the compliments on my wit. I try, and I can only hope I will continue to give you all properly in-character Joker and whatever-the-hell-in-character-is for Cleveland. XD

Anyway, I own nothing except Harvey and Cleave, and in the next chapter I promise there will be some Battsy!

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

I wonder, quietly, if he so happens to be bipolar. Cleveland-whoever-this-nut-case-is has agreed to help me unpack from the ceiling what he has just glued _to_ the ceiling. I think my mental breakdown rattled his moronic man-feelings. All the while I try to scribble onto a notepad, while he graces a tiny stepping stool with his ent-like height. The man is a tree. Have I mentioned that before?

My eyes don't stop attaching, though, to the funny scars on his face. They fascinate me in the most morbid, repulsive way. Every inch of him does.

"Oh ho…ho…ho…ho…" He mocks a laugh, and saws violently at the edges of the box. His brilliant idea is that if he cuts it off right at the top (or the bottom, really), he can just pull it down from the ceiling with (voila!) all my stuff intact. And, still plastered there…is the bottom of the box. It's unmovable from the ceiling, and as he sways, wobbling with erratic laughter to and fro, I stare tiredly up at the singular, lonely, cardboard square. The half-box he holds is overflowing with picture frames and little, porcelain figurines. He's maniacally cracking up at the ridiculous few inches of ceiling spanned by his handiwork. Forgive me if I don't die of amusement. I don't find it quite so funny, since it _is_ my apartment, "Do ya see that? Hoo_whee_, Cleveland, ya outdone yourself this time! I should start a designer line—Cardboard Ingenuity by Cleveland Roger Punsworth. Think of the _possibilities!"_

I wonder if anyone has ever laughed at his jokes. He seems to rip stitches in himself, but all I can do is stare.

"Yeah, how funny are—"

"—Yoink!" He picks from my grip the pad I was doodling on, and his eyes scan the paper furtively. He licks his lips, his grin breaking ever wider. Sometimes, I wonder if it's an expression or an open wound. "—'A deadly villain wielding a knife, caked purely in poorly applied makeup, seems bent on becoming the scourge of the city. This cosmetically challenged murderer left behind only a Joker card, the picture of which is contained within this article'. Ooh…hoo..hee—oh, the _weirdoes _we get in Gotham City. New Yorkers would feel right at home here, I swear."

"Hey, Cleave?"

"Yes, bud_dy?_"

"YOINK." I rip the paper out of his hands and stuff it in my pocket. I'm not in the mood. _Seriously _not in the mood. "How's about a magic trick, Cleveland? You get the fuck out of my apartment, and I don't."

I notice, for the strangest reason, he has these big, sad puppy-dog eyes. I can't manage to take him seriously with those big, watery, green puppy-dog eyes. He pouts, but the scars ruin the entire attempt. I think that, once, he must have been handsome.

"That's a shame, I was just gonna order some Chinese, too." He sighs, mock-dejected. Halfway out the doorway, my eyebrow arches and he whips around like I've just uttered a 'stop'. He seems excited, suddenly, and I realize he reminds me of a puppy who has to pee.

"What kinda Chinese are we talking?"

"Pad Thai. And that stuff that sounds like Mister Magoo when you pronounce it."

"Moo goo gai pan?"

"If you say so, girly." A nerve strikes, for just a second, but I wave it away. Girly? Weird…I suppose desperation and loneliness can bring together even two people who wish the other dead. Or, I could just be seriously hungry, "Share an order of ku lu jou? I swear, I knew the English names for this stuff before the place down the block got to me."

My eyebrow arches again. Do I trust him enough for this?

"There's…uhh..." He looks up, and I wonder, sometimes, if there's something in the air suspended that only he can see, dangling right in his field of vision. He licks his lips again, and nervously taps his foot. "…only so much a guy my size can dee-vow-wer."

The way he enunciates is strange.

I give in, though.

"Get an extra egg roll."


	9. Battsy's Out to Play

I own nothing. How many times must I say this? XD I have _nothing,_ I'm just an excitable eighteen year old girl with a creepy crush on the Joker. Because the giant, hand-drawn Joker hanging in my room that I bought off a random guy in the mall totally doesn't justify that, no. Anyway, Cleveland and Harvey are mind, but that's because Cleveland is a bony, awkward cuddle-bunny and Harvey's just a bitch. I sincerely do just find her nasty oO; I think, should I live with her, I'd be a little afraid.

XxXxXxXxXxXx

With every bite of my egg roll I feel like he's attempting to lock my soul into his stare. He's the oddest person (can you call him that?) in every way, but I can't help but wonder if he feels devoted to me (as a _friend?_) or if he's just working like hell to creep me out.

So I bring up the most inappropriate topic I can.

"They hurt?" He quirks a weird, pale eyebrow at me, mouth full of egg foo young, and swallows with a gulp. Those eyes. Those stupid, puppy-dog eyes. They widen, and glint, and suddenly I wonder if I've prodded at some kind of already burning fire. What? I'm confused, but he shakes his head, puffing out a cheek comically, holding the air in there, until the corner of his mouth twitches. Muscle damage? Why am I wondering this?

"Nah. These ol' things, on my face? Well, they don't hurt _me_, if that's what you mean." He inhales a laugh before cramming a handful of noodles into his mouth. He eats like a wolverine. I wonder, though, if he makes everything a joke even if it's not funny at all.

"Don't bug me. I've seen worse." Am I honestly being nice to this freak?

This freak who just bought me Chinese food.

That thought keeps me in check.

Then again, I'm sure If someone carved up _my_ face I'd be a pretty pissed off little person. I'd suppose it's got a bit to do with his weird attitude, or I could just be giving too much credit on his behalf. How'd he get them, is what I want to ask, but I can't bring myself to go _that_ far just yet.

"I don't think you've seen worse unless you worked in a hospital, toots. Where do you come from, hah? You've got that wide-eyed look about you. It's definitely not big, bad Gotham City." His condescension doesn't go unnoticed, but it goes unrecognized verbally because I can tell he's being defensive. I just roll my eyes and retreat into a carton of sesame chicken.

"I'm from outside Gotham, _thank you._ So feel free to let the naïve country jokes fly."

"Too easy a mark. It'd be like makin' fun'a your name. How low can a guy go, in the metaphorical sense? Honestly, _Hah_vey." He cracks his massive, yellow-toothed grin and his eyes dance vividly behind it. I can't begin to describe how much this second enrages me. I want to slam it off his face, but a) I can't reach that high and b) I'm as strong as a chinchilla.

"Good point, _Cleave._"

Within about an hour we finish eating. We take jabs at each other, ones that never seem to end, nastily berating on different attributes, joking in the most hateful ways. We hit every inappropriate, insulting topic but somehow, neither of us back down. He's satisfied with the outcome, and when he finally withdraws from what I call 'my flea-ridden couch', he ruffles my hair affectionately and purrs, "Sweet dreams, _Harrrrrrrrrrrvey."_

The fact that he touched me, though, makes my skin crawl. And I can only stand there—and then bolt my front door shut as tight as possible.

Enter visitor number two.

The lights are off, and as far as I'm concerned, no one's home.

That blinding light-thing that normally invades my apartment hasn't shown up tonight, but lucky me, contestant number one has!

"Why do you put up with him?" The voice is like scratching gravel-on-gravel, and when I try to focus from my bed not so far away, I see the shape of the giant, mutant Bat-thing.

"Said the guy in a Halloween costume on my roof?" Why is it that when I say 'roof', I pronounce it 'ruff'? ….Never mind.

"That's still not answering the question." I can see the outline of what I suppose is his back. I note, however, that it seems to be the size of a Mack truck.

"Because I'm broke and hungry?" That's pretty mean and fickle, Harvey. I mentally mutter, in my own guilt, that he isn't too bad a guy, either.

"That's a little shallow, don't you think?" I hear the foundation of my window creak obnoxiously. I think he's leaning over to glance at something.

"Excuse me, bat-for-brains, are you accusing me of being shallow? The most you know about me is the sound of my voice and the fact that my neighbor is a pri—"

"You can tell a lot about a person, if you really listen." I wince, like being stabbed in the front. He's abrupt, clipped with his words. He avoids small-talk at all costs. If he wants to get his point across, he just _does _it.

"Yeah, well, go _really listen_ someplace else and let me—"

_Whoosh._

Rude motherfucker.


	10. The Joker's Game: Toy

There's a special thanks in order to **Sushi Bowl **for this chapter, because that masquerade idea of yours is about to come up. Harvey's life has gotten very interesting very quickly, basically in a span of four days. But that's what happens when you're the target of what will soon be a psycho-murderer and have made acquaintance with 'The Batman'. I have excuses for her to dress up all slick-like, too. I've got it all planned out, and so, this is just the beginning. XD As usual, I own no one except Cleveland and Harvey. The Batman and the Joker both belong to DC Comics, but the Cleave is all mine. Here's to narrowly dodging clichés right about now! Also, special thanks to **Harlequin Sequins** for helping me out with plot discussion and character stuffs. I have some pretty awesome reviewers, to all of you, and it makes me so happy to know I'm doing good. Thanks so much! And, hopefully, this'll be a long chapter by my standards XD

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Within a span of two days I have managed to learn a number of things. One: Cleveland will not vacate my apartment. Two: The Bat breathes very loudly. Three: Cleveland lives up my rectum.

So far, I would say, my life has been pretty interesting. Not positive, not fun, but it's certainly gained a…_flair _that wasn't there before I moved into Gotham City. I mean, I appreciate the intrigue, but I guess I was expecting to make new friends, not to be harassed by a freak in make-up.

With the article submitted, I guess I feel a little calmer. Without a doubt, I can relax a little more. It's a comforting sensation to know that I've done the bidding of a transvestite with homicidal tendencies. At least, hopefully, I won't be accosted down dark alleys some more. Normally, I would have waved it off, but…something about him was undeniable. It was a feral feeling, like an inescapable panic. If I didn't do it, what would have happened?

I would be short a few organs and a life, that's what.

As strange as this sounds, in a matter of days, Cleveland and I have become clockwork. Of course, I know everything about him because….well, he _talks_ about himself all the damn time. I'm not the talkative type, but if I sit there trying to write up something he'll wander the apartment, gesticulating wildly, flailing, explaining every over-passionate aspect of his stupid life. I've learned he loves strawberry mentos, the smell of gasoline, his blonde hair is natural and that his favorite dog species are Dobermans. I have learned all of these things because Cleveland Roger Punsworth (Oh, look at that, I learned that, too!) will not shut the fuck up.

You think I'm kidding? _Never._

With a secure hundred and six bucks in my pocket and a rent of seventy, I can't help but feel confident for the first real time in my life. I've paid my first month of rent. How exciting is that? And for once, I'm not being sarcastic!

With what is, for once, an exuberant mood, I buy a little roll of strawberry mentos from the corner-guy-with-the-weird-Mario-mustache and wander my way back to my shit-hole. It's been upgraded from fuck-hole, but only while my mood lasts.

I wonder, if only for a moment, why it seems as though Cleveland and I are the only two people on this floor once the elevator doors screech open and I'm faced with the bony, angular form of what I consider my roommate. Cleveland, I have learned, waits for me like an excited puppy. I call him that, sometimes—god, listen to me, talking like I've known him for years. I feel ill.

"Good news. I'm not going to die today, and I got you some mints." I toss the roll at him and his reflexes fail utterly. They fall against his bare, pasty stomach and then roll to the floor. Huh? His hair is tied back into a messy excuse for a smaller ponytail, and his nose twitches like a thoughtful animal. Today is smiley-patterned-boxer day.

"How thoughtful, you shouldn't have, it was all I wanted for Chris_t_mas." I side-step the hair-ruffle and brush past him to make my way up the stairs. Physical contact will diminish my mellow mood. I want to keep this as long as I can. "Hey, where ya goin'? I was gonna order Chinese—"

"Write."

And I slam the door.

Shame of all shames, I don't lock it. What's wrong with me? I'm treating him like a _friend._

I have two weeks, this time, to write an article. But, suddenly, I feel this anxious weight bearing down on me. I feel like that guy, the transvestite with a sense of humor, the Joker, is looming right over my shoulder, and I can't—

"You usually bolt like a stray cat, girly?" Cleveland's familiar giggle resounds from behind me, and when I turn to look there he is, his thumbs hooked at the waistband of his boxer shorts. He has the most unholy slouch. If I were his mother, I'd yell for hours.

"Working, Cleave." I note, with the half-snort of a sound, that the mentos package I've so graciously purchased is tucked behind his ear, like writers do with pens. He licks at his lips, and idly sways on his tippy-toes. I swear, sometimes, I imagine his tongue is forked.

"All work and no play makes Harvey an even duller girl than she usually is. Ah-_yoink!" _I hate it when he does that. He yanks the paper right out of my hands, whistling as I pretty much blindly grab for it. I'm too short, and his grin cracks into a big, obscene parade of an expression.

"Hey, Cleave?"

"Yeeeee-_eh_-sssssssss, Harvey?"

"Yoink!" I kick at his kneecap so suddenly and he makes this wheeze of a sound, doubling over halfway until the paper flutters from his fingers. I remember something—knees are the most sensitive parts of the body…well, unless you count the male anatomy, but it works out well enough to get a reaction. I stoop and pick up the paper. He wheezes again, but I swear it's a laugh. No, an outright giggle. "—Don't fuck with me while I'm working."

(Later on that evening, still no food from Cleveland, still writing, still living miserably)

The raving psychopath picked the wrong girl to sing his praises. I stare at the chicken-scratch on my trusty notepad, my head lolling, until the voice of the devil itself wakes me—

"I need you to do a favor for me."

No. Just the bat-mutant.

"Ah do fay-vor.." Oh, the classic just-waking tone. My vision swims, my glasses crooked on my face, until I can see his incredible stature (see: What they use to cover Connecticut when it rains) looming in the shadows. He slaps something down in front of me, and I slowly realize it's the Joker card given to me by that sick freak nights ago.

"There are very small numbers scrawled up the side. He's planning to meet you tonight, on this date." Clipped and to the point, absolutely, of course. "You need to attend a masquerade ball that the mayor is holding. It's imperative we catch this man before any more harm is done. He's already killed several civilians, you're the only one currently left alive, and with his own form of…souvenir. It's being held at city hall. When you're ready, there's a car waiting for you downstairs. Get into it, and be sure not to talk to anyone."

I wonder if that was a stale joke or not.

"Ah don' got nothin' to wear to a—" Huh? An object is thrown, suddenly, at me, a red and black object, accompanied by a plain black one. I have no idea what any of this is, but the material is heavy enough that I quirk an eyebrow, "Is this a fucking _dress?_"

_Whoosh._

Jerk-off.

(Twenty minutes later, plus eye-liner, hair-curling and a dress about a size too big)

"All dressed up and nowhere to go, sweetheart?" Cleveland saunters into my apartment. I hear the idle _thunk thunk thunk_ that is him toying so merrily with his paddle-ball. His eyes follow the little thing while it bounces.

"Don't wait up."

And without another glance, I'm gone.

(Maybe fifteen minutes later, plus eye-liner and cheap, cheesily made mask that covers only the top half of my face)

Batman has so graciously forgotten to provide me with shoes. Luckily, I own a pair of black Mary Jane's that work out half decent with the harlequin dress. The thing is red on the left side and black on the right, but to the middle of my waist it diverts to being black on the left and red on the right. The skirt is amusing, kind of frayed at the bottom for effect, and I'm so short that it reaches just below my knees. A black belt cinches it to my waist. Feeling this girly makes me squirmy.

I feel like the spotlight's on me.

This place is crawling with undercover cops.

Social anxiety much?

Bruce Wayne, the swanky, over-done billionaire attends. He floats charmingly from person to person with an air of condescension. He's done up in a valiant suit of armor with a black cape attached. I resist the urge to say 'show off'.

Within less than a week of living here, I have become the prime witness to a series of crimes. And I have gone from _being_ that witness to becoming the decoy. I am the sitting duck in a sea of sharks. I am the spot of color on a white canvas. I am not fitting in with high society. I am—

Having a panic attack.

I'm thrust up, suddenly, from my safety-seat at the punch bowl. I'm not so happy anymore with the concept of making something of myself. A rough grip floats me from my comfort zone to the dance floor as an upbeat waltz commences. A rough, gloved hand squeezes my waist.

The man's hair, this funny shade of green-blonde (is that even possible? Ew…) is tied back into a ponytail, and his cheeks contain, each, a perfectly rounded pink circle at the dimples. His eyes are finely rimmed with black, and their coloring feels invisible behind the predatory glimmer. He clutches me to him, speaks until his breath falls hot on my ears. My heart pulsates like a fucking heroine addict's.

"We really must stop meeting like this."

My blood runs cold. I swear, for a split second, I feel a frigid shock of metal across my wrist. It's my imagination, but amid the cloud of dancers no one will ever see. I feel eyes on me, which doesn't help my apprehension situation.

"Are you being good, my little Harvey? Don't show a sign that you're doing a thing but dancing. There are mines under your feet, girly, just think of that. The wrong step and—boom! You're done for." He mutes a cackle beneath his breath, and I listen with discomfort for the purr with which he speaks.

There are black lines painted at his jaw. He's supposed to be a marionette.

"I like living, you know."

"As you well should, girly. I think we all like to live a little sometimes. Anyway, this isn't about you _or_ me, tonight's fun-bash is all about our fair city. So you're gonna do me another _fantastic_ favor."

I feel a chill dash up my spine. I'm less afraid than I am blatantly nervous. He sits right in my proximity, and I freeze like a deer in the headlights. My eyes stray for a moment, trying to lock with who I was earlier introduced to as Lieutenant Gordon, but I snap back on sight when I feel two strong fingers press against my wrist. Crack. That'll bruise by morning.

"You're not being a very obedient dog, girly. You haven't given me that yes_ssssss."_

The 's' is malicious, a violent snake's hiss. His eyes are dark a moment, I swear, screened behind psychotic lenses of some transparent form. His lips break into a slight grin. The corners twitch uncontrollably. I can't help but ask myself if that expression is awarded because, shoved up against me, he can feel my heart rate.

"You're gonna write another nifty tale about me. Oh, and…uh…" his eyes roll back and he does that thing I've become oddly familiar with. It looks like he's in thought, but instead of licking a lip he chews at it, idly, smudging the red along his yellow teeth. Nicotine stains? Why am I worrying about these facts? "…inform Bat-_shit_ that if he pulls another prank like this soiree, here, I'll blow up _two_ private schools."

Why does he have to tell _me_ these things? I'm not even extraordinary. I just want to be left alone. _Damn it._

Bruce Wayne's eyes lock with mine for a moment, the fierce, crystal blue that they are. The transvestite with a sense of humor visibly seethes, and I feel his reptilian tongue flick along my ear teasingly for half a moment. My spine straightens immediately and my steps stumble. His hands are the only reason I stay on-foot, "That's my cue to blow this popsicle stand. Until we meet again, _giiiiiiirly."_

I stare, dumbfounded, my mouth hanging halfway open. Not only are we unsuccessful in catching the psychotic, but—

Did I just get sexually molested by a madman?

I demand therapy.


	11. Concerned Cleveland

Okay, so I can't stop writing for this. I've literally never updated anything this fast or excitedly in my life, but, low and behold, I'm doing this. I'm mildly astounded at how successful this has become, and I'm excited beyond belief about it. It makes me happy as anything, and thanks so much to all of you still following. I'm seeing this one through to the end, I promise you this, and we've only just begun. I own no one, except Cleave and darling Harvey. As of this moment, _poor_ darling Harvey. XD

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Tick. Tick. Tick.

When I leave the party, there's another anonymous car to take me on home, but the second I walk out there's this deafening quiet. It's like what you imagine right before the big bang—a moment of earth-shattering, echoing silence, and then—

_BOOM!_

It's a few blocks away, but the sound shakes the ground like a megaton hammer from the heavens. I stumble on my feet, and suddenly all the fat, rich guys are in an uproar. I feel so empty that I could really care less what happens from here on in.

What kind of effect am I letting this freak have on me?

One thought lingers in my mind, entirely disturbed.

He _licked_ me.

I need to take a few dozen showers.

By the time I get home I take my stupid prison-box up to my floor and there's Cleveland, watching a slinky roll down the molding stairs in his smiley boxers. The rain (did I mention that was just another fantastic part of the evening?) has ruined my attempted curly hair, and now it's just a pile of pitiful chestnut-and-auburn. It'll get curly in an awkward, gross way in a half hour or so.

I walk up the stairs past him. I don't make a sound.

"Well hello to you too, babydoll." He casts his eyes upward toward me, but I just flash out a hand passively in a bored, exhausted wave. "Had a bad night? Didn't score? What's the deal, buddy-boy?"

"Tired." Is the only word I say when I slam the door. As usual, he ignores that. Completely. I need to write an article.

"Ya know, if you…uhh…just..let stuff sit there like this, all broody and kinda pitiful, it'll only bite you in the derier, Harvey." His lips keep twitching, but it's awkward this time. It looks like he's trying to push down his grin. I lean back on the legs of my collapsing chair and stare at the cardboard square still glued to the ceiling. Fuck that shit.

"Do you ever know when to leave a girl alone?"

"Nope, ah, ya see—" He saunters over and kneels behind me, playfully tucking his chin into my shoulder. His tongue darts out, and it makes me spasm for half a moment in discomfort. I scowl, though, and just look over, "—it's one of my better qualities. Guys avoid the whole chick-flick talkey sessions, don't they?"

"You're not a guy, though, you're a giant snake."

"You look, ah…you look, ah…you look…ah…pretty…in that—ah…that…uh—ah…dress." He finalizes the statement after what I'm sure is malfunctioning, bouncing on his tip-toes while still in Spider-man-crouch position. His eyes roll with each 'ah' and 'uh', and I roll my own at that stupid habit. I can't believe I'm friends with this weirdo.

Flick.

My exhausted old television comes to life when I hit the cinderblock of a remote, and the dull drone of an anchorman resounds through the apartment. Both Cleveland and I look over, except his mouth makes an 'o' shape and he lets out a tiny, Scooby-Doo 'aroo' noise in curiosity.

"_This just in. The Joker, Gotham City's latest mass terrorist threat, has blown up Gotham City Prep, the City's wealthiest private school within the limits. Though no one was harmed, it can't help but be wondered…is this only the beginning?"_

I shudder and throw the remote across the room, my jaw twitching continually.

This guy.

I can't get this guy out from under my skin.

Cleveland just makes another 'aroo?'


	12. Phil Collins Cleveland

I'm going for a lighter chapter here, since things are getting a little intense by this point on. Of course, the humor is there, but I think it might just get a bit more morbid as continued. I'm not sure, it all depends on how I feel. Anyway, now life for Harvey is beginning to look pretty messy, isn't it? It's not going to get better, I promise. Thanks to all my reviewers, once again, I appreciate all of you sticking by me. I own Cleave and Harvey and, without further ado, let's get this ball rolling!

XxXxXxXxXx

One in the morning.

It's one in the morning and I can still feel the flick of his cool, serpentine tongue along my ear. It took me an hour to chase Cleveland out so I could take a shower, but he finally departed after I promised that tomorrow we'd play scrabble together. I suppose he's not too bad, but when your options are as limited as mine, what other choices do you have?

My name is Harvey AnneMarie Tinkle. My interests include long walks on the beach, games of poker and rock music. My friends include a tremendous man in a bat costume and a six-foot-three praying mantis with ADD.

Fancy all of this. Gotham City really is an entertaining place.

No matter what, writing that article is beginning to feel foreboding. With every word I weakly scrawl I _hear_ him, murmuring in devastating, nasal mutters along my skin. Is it ridiculous to fear this man, this freak? A transvestite with a sense of humor was my first thought, but his deeds and his promises have obliterated my mocking mind. And worse, he's got a mark on me. As what, I don't know.

The bat-signal's off for some holy reason, but that figure looms along my window-sill. I speak up, my hair badly ruffled, because I totally can_not_ sleep.

"Thanks for saving me, ass-bat."

"If anyone would have made a move, you'd be dead."

"Better dead than _sodomized._"

I swear I hear some raspy, airy chuckle float along the wind, but I don't crack a smile. I have a sour sense of humor, and making other people laugh is not included.

"Think it's funny? Let him lick _you_, see how _you_ feel trying to scrub off the heebie-jeebies that seem permanently fucking attached to your skin." I punch at the pillow desperately, feeling the cot screech with a pathetic heave. This is worse than the dorms in college.

"He wouldn't have killed me."

"He's a merciless murderer. He would've done away with you without remorse. What makes you think otherwise?" I can't tell if that's curiosity piqued within his voice, or an undertone of pure sarcasm. Either way, I rebuttal like a pro.

"Because, ding-_bat_, he needs me for some other purpose."

"That's only what you want to believe."

"You're a fuck—"

_Whoosh._

Stupid bitch.

Meanwhile, I begin to notice something. There's some form of music lilting through the paper-thin wall my bed is pressed against, and when I moan I proceed to beat the crap out of my pillow in displeasure. Instead of trying to mute the sound in desperation, I trudge out of bed with my gnarled, stuffed teddy bear dangling from one hand and my trusty cell-phone-for-light in the other. I stumble around in the dark, and pray not to cross any varieties of insect species living under my floorboard.

_I can feel it comin' in the air tonight…oh Lord…_

When I peek into Cleveland's twenty-four-seven convenience store, a.k.a his perpetually open door, I see him sitting on his hideous maroon couch, his eyes glued to the television. There's only one problem…the TV emits only surges of random static-snow and his eyes are wide as dinner plates. He's clad only in a pair of loose-fitting, flannel, purple pajama pants adorned with cartoon sheep. He repeatedly shovels into his mouth a spoon from a carton of what I assume is chocolate ice cream.

_I've been waiting for this moment, all my life…oh Lord…_

"Cleave!" I roar, and launch my bear, without warning, right at his head. He's unaffected, though he flails a little when Mr. Snookum's paw lands half in his carton of joy.

"Huzza—wha'? Oh, Harvey!" His face breaks out into a grin a mile wide, and he zips to the edge of the couch to lean over when I walk near. Within moments, he nearly chokes me with the spoon as he forces a chunk of double-fudge Ben and Jerry's into my mouth. Hack. I flinch, but swallow, hard.

_Can you feel it comin' in the air tonight? Oh Lord…_

"Cleave, the fuck is this bullshit?"

"It's _Phil Collins!_ What's wrong with you? Is it really an outside-Gotham-City thing, do you hick-folk have no taste?" He giggles, though, this unearthly sound like Ed straight out of the Lion King.

"…You listen to Phil Collins?"

My eyebrow's right up there in the stratosphere.

"I _love_ Phil Collins."

"As if you didn't have enough flamboyant tendencies. Turn that shit down, I'm trying to fucking sleep."

"You're one to talk, little miss _Haaaahvey._ And _I'm_ the one with 'tendencies'?" I roll my eyes, biting back a venomous remark on the name joke, and just wander out of the room.

"Wait, you forgot Mr. Snookums!"

Oh, motherfucker. Seriously.


	13. The Joker's Game: Material

It's funny how fast I update this, but I suddenly realized I get to pull off an idea, now, that I've been dying to go for for _ages! _I am now so over-excited that I can't help but type it up, and that makes me giddy as hell. Anyway, I'm going to warn that right now it's going to get pretty damn gruesome. The Joker has a flair for the repulsive, and from here on in it'll show itself. Harvey's about to have a major change in personality, but I'll shut up, now! Thanks to all of you—now it's time to vent my over-excitement! :D

XxXxXxXxXxXx

When I wake the next morning, it's to Sussudio blasting idly in the next room. I can hear the obscenely stupid lyrics of Phil Collins as though he were performing within my apartment. I can also hear Cleveland droning loudly along with him, and here and there I hear what I think is a tap-step. The sky outside is overcast and disgusting, the kind of grey you see that is either a dark and stormy warning or an omen of some big, cheesy threat to come.

"I'll be back later, Cleave," I holler, when I exit the apartment and yank the door closed. It clicks, and I can only witness him hopping out Michael Jackson dance moves on his couch, "I've got an appointment with another editor, see if I can't scrape up another few dollars."

"Wait!" He yowls, and practically trips over the arm of his couch. I can only stare at him dumbly as he shoves something into my hand and closes my fingers around it. It's soft, fuzzy—"It's my rabbit's foot thing, ya know? It's good luck! Maybe you'll win the lotto or… not die!"

…

Awkward.

Kind gestures. Shutting down. I don't know what to do.

So I nod, and with that, I step off and into the cubicle of utter damnation, a.k.a the elevator.

(Ten minutes later, after a few wrong turns and some unpleasant stumbles down some unpleasant alleys)

The slums of Gotham feel abandoned, and so do I. This weather isn't conducive to my purpose. The sky threatens to open and vengefully grace me with a thousand water droplets. This alleyway has me claustrophobic. I'm lost as can be.

And suddenly, I eat wall.

Literally.

"Well, well, well, fancy seeing you here in all the old, familiar places..." and an old, familiar voice purrs against my ear, heavy, spine-tingling. It's enough to make my hair gain real, curly substance.

"I've got another week—w-week to write that article, Jokester, so why don't you just—"

"Oh, no, no, no, _no._ See, I was thinking about it, and…uhh—well," His eyes roll skyward, but I can't see. I can only feel what I hope is his knee digging _hard_ into my lower back. "You see…I figured something important out. You need _personal experience_ to be a re-e-e-e-eal good journalist, and I'm gonna give it to ya. Meet contestant number one!"

With a rough flick of my wrist he whirls me around, and to my horror I realize he's going way too far. With his eggplant-gloved hand wrapped around a chunk of pale flesh, there he has a little boy, maybe ten years old, stuffed against the narrow brick.

Even I can't handle this. I start to feel _immensely_ anxious.

"Contestant number one is a poor, _sad_ little delinquent with two sisters and an alcoholic ol' ma. In an attempt to gain the finer things in life, you will find exhibit A, a _stolen_ yo-yo within the pocket of his currently soiled jeans." His giggle… no, his _cackle_ is unearthly, and though I yank away he just slams halfway against me and forces me back into the wall. I'm hyperventilating. I can't help it. "Retribution as God intends it, ladies and gentlemen, says that his hands be cut _off!"_

He giggles again, pauses, licks at his lips eagerly. There's the brightest glimmer in his eyes, overblown by shades of deep black. In his excitement, they seem balls of pure fire.

"_Buuuut…_I'm not a conventional man, so I'll go my own route. Here, I'm God." The sound he makes is like the kick-start of a motor-boat, somewhere between a purr and a growl. With some kind of perverse disgust, I realize that he's getting off on this like I'd never believe. "This is how it's gonna go down, girly. You're gonna watch me rip little Jeffrey Smith's face _wiiiiide _open—oh, and, ah…if you look away? If you flinch? If you even _try_ to close your eyes…then little Jeffrey won't be the only one _missing_ something."

He unhands me enough to push my back against the wall, but the only reason I stay is because with some unspoken force he pins me. I can't even try to squirm, because every inch of me knows I'll be caught. I can only watch as this kid tries to squeal and squiggle away, but the Joker's grip is untouchable. I'm shaking, I feel it, but it only excites him. His breaths hitch with joy, and he tenses the prints of his fingers into the boy's cheeks.

"What's wrong, little boy blue, having a bad day?" The knife flicks out like an instant ingenuity, and it winks a vibrant silver in the light. It's like it's alive, like it's an extension of all the universe. It's a harpy, I recognize, because once upon a time I owned one myself. The boy's legs shiver in violent desperation, but the edge of the violently sharp blade teases merrily with the corner of his mouth. His number's up, and those maddened, kohl-laden eyes zip back to me zealously to be sure I'm still fixated. "You can have a bed-time story before you go nap-nap, junior. You wanna know how I got these scars?"

The hairs on my arms stand up. I can feel my heart-beat quickening. I pray to every God conceivable. I'm not even religious.

"So…ah…ya see," He toys the blade around, back and forth, back and forth, caressing, "I was a real good poker player once, right? A talented joe at the bluff—and I had a friend, you followin' me? –Look, listen, right here. I had a friend who _always_ played with me. He and I were chums, buddies since high school. So, one day—no, look, over here—I said, _look._ –Yeah, one day we get involved with some real nasty card-sharks, some mob henchmen, and they make a deal with me and my buddy. They tell us that if we both play, one'll die, the loser, and the winner comes out right on top, moo-la and all. So, see, I win, of course, because I've got the best poker face of any guy you ever seen—I told you to _look_—and my buddy, he can't stand it. He's backed up right, all the way up, right in a corner, and they've got a big ol' revolver right to his temple."

His other hand, the one not expertly sliding the knife, presses the index finger to the boy's head. He flinches, and despite the fact that I'm trembling harder and harder, I can't stare anywhere else. He keeps looking back at me. The boy's eyes, desperate, baby blue, constantly bore into me. He begs for me to do something.

"Ka-pow, says he, if ya don't do something we'd like ya to. See, these guys—no, they're not good guys, they wanna watch the fight, that's it. So, they says, your buddy's got a great poker face, and they throw a razor at him—why don't ya change that?" I watch as he presses the cold steel in a bit, and all that escapes is the sound of a whimper. It's slick with frigid sweat, tears, pure mortality. "So, see, this is what he does—ooooh, yes, this is what he does. They hold me down and I holler all hell, I make a spectacle like you've never _seen._ But my buddy, he's not fazed. So he stuffs the thing in my mouth—_yes_, just like _this_—and he does—"

Pause. He looks over his half-hunched shoulder, but it doesn't matter. I have nowhere to run, it's too narrow, and I don't have the guts to even scatter.

"—he does _this._"

I can't help the whine that accompanies because in a flicker of a moment he stabs the harpy through the child's cheekbone and yanks it across, a display of incredible strength on his behalf. The boy cries out, and his features explode in a moment of pure pain and bloodied agony. He screams and sobs, clutching the bloody smile now carved into his skin, but the Joker doesn't let him go. Rather, I feel my stomach turn, lurch desperately, and I have to prop myself against the wall by a hand to keep steady. My world is spinning. I'm massively phobic of blood.

He laughs heartily at me, his wild, filthy green eyes filled with ecstatic delight. "And you know what I do to him? I do _this!"_

The knife suddenly punctures in the kid's throat, right in below his head, and he drags the thing upward to the very tip of his hairline. My hands are shaking. My consciousness is blacking in and out. The ground is thick, sticky with deadly maroon and the fabricated smell of carcass. I feel bile rise in my throat.

There's a sickening crash, but I can only see the world through splotches of awkward color. My insides churn and turn, and a hand roughly shoves my chin up. The face I meet with is covered in ashen makeup; his eyes aren't playful any longer. They're dark, now, threatening.

"Go spin me a tale, pretty girl."

And with that, thunder crashes, at the most inopportune moment, and the skies pour wet judgment on me. The little boy with the torn-up face breathes his last horrible, gurgling gasps and I collapse on my knees, heaving back mounds of throw-up and shaking like a cell phone on vibrate. My pupils dilate, convulse, my every inch convulses.

The blood is too much for me to watch.

Oh God.


	14. Downhill

So, consider this a special tid-bit. I'm going to go from Cleveland's point of view this time, because Harvey's boring and dead now XD Just for this chapter, though, maybe one more, because the things happening from him are more interesting than the ones on her end. Without further ado, with great thanks to my reviewers (in particular **ACleverName**, who was cool enough to draw me a Harvey/Cleveland which I will shamelessly peddle once I have it XD), on with the tale!

XxXxXxXxXxXx

It's a good three days before I realize the dire error in judgment I've made.

I wanted to push her, I wanted to see her limit, I wanted to know what she can take. How is this possible? How did I calculate wrong?

Just a little shove.

I wanted to put a dent in her view of reality, not shatter it completely.

Is she really this weak?

I feel halfway disgusted with her.

"Why so glum, bucko?"

But when I open the door to glance in, she doesn't move. In the complete dark, total dark, she just sits against the wall, Indian-style. Her hands are crammed between her thighs, and her glasses sit tiredly at the tip of her nose. Casually, grinning, I remark, "You look like _shit_."

She's been doing this for three days.

"Go away, Cleave." She doesn't make eye contact with me at all, just stares into the stupid wall ahead of her, my wall, if you ask me, and plays with her fingers a little. There are little cuts, delightful scrapes all from her temple down to her cheek. For someone with her tolerance, they should burn like hell, but I haven't heard her make a sound.

She's been cryin', though, I accompany that with the little lurch of merriment in my stomach. The basics, crying, puking and, of course, shutting oneself off from the outside world.

Really, I'm just checking in to be sure her sanity's still a _little_ there.

"What's eatin' at the back of your head, sweetheart?"

I'd hate her if I didn't find her so complicatedly endearing. I think I've taken my personal lab-rat a little too far.

"I watched someone die," The vivacity is gone to her tone. It just sits around in the air, like the dull drone of a truck in third gear, "I felt it, and I saw it and he told me if I didn't he'd do…_something_ to me."

She shudders at the word something. I'm a little disappointed at that. I mean, yeah, I'm always up for intimidation but I'm not gonna do the _something_ I know is in her head. Wrong impressions, girly.

"How's about I go get some ice cream and we watch a whole ton of America's Next Top Model? C'mon, you can throw things at the pretty girls. –Hey, looksie, don't move, I'll be right back."

I do just that, not even waiting for her answer. I know it'll sound like 'go away, Cleveland', which disappoints me because I do enjoy the 'fuck off, Cleveland', a little bit more. I've de-barked the Chihuahua, I've de-clawed the kitten.

There was a potential I saw in her that everyone else lacked. There was a fire, the blatant, bright ability to be bad without reserve or care. I've snuffed out the flame.

Well, that, and this girl's _really_ hard to lure out of whatever shell she lives in.

I thought_ I_ was difficult? Bro_ther _is she a pain in the rear.

And when I return to the door to her apartment, armful of frozen dairy product in hand, I realize something—

The door is locked.

Three. Two. One.

Panic.


	15. The Joker's Game: Feed the Spark

Panic. Anxiety. Nervous. Jumpy. Terrified.

_Crash!_

There's a sound within, a loud shatter.

Four. Five. Six.

Panic.

All these concepts that I have watched people go through, that I have delighted in, now swim around in my stomach. This is, quite possibly, the most uncomfortable thing I have ever felt in my life. The panic is attached to one thing, and I lick my lips fervently. Now, it's just a nervous habit—

"Oh hey, Ha_rrrrr_vey, sweetheart, do I gotta call Dr. Phil?"

I can't help but wonder if what's boiling in my veins is anger or some misplaced form of rage, because I shake the doorknob hard enough that the entire frame rattles and I bark, "_HARVEY!"_

The lack of answer brings up a thousand _pop! _nasty ideas in my brain. If she kills herself, then it's just another ages spent waiting and waiting for someone, anyone. If she kills herself, then I've got no more toy anymore. If she kills herself, it'll be another two-bit moron who's gotta go next-door.

So I do the first thing that pops into my eagerly brilliant mind. In a shaking episode of half-madness, I fling open my door and hastily start applying makeup. I don't care, I just smear the white paint all over my face and drag the lipstick across. Gel, lots of hair gel, need some more, muss it up, drag it through, make it look obscene, inconceivable. Crooked grin—my grin is trembling. This isn't right.

Time to drag you out of your coma, girly.

I tug on the green shirt, the half purple vest in quickening hasta, and the jacket is the last on. I'm cluttering all over everything, murmuring curses and unintelligible banter.

Gloves. Gloves. Where are my gloves?

Where the _fuck_ did I put these gloves?

The hell with it. I growl, impatient, and decide to give up on it. Forget the gloves. There's no time to pretty myself up, forgive my informality, Miss Tinkle.

Forgive it. Forgive it. This is ridiculous. This is obscene.

The door gives way without a slight difficulty, a weak splintering. I don't look right, in fact, I seem a disturbed mess. The lipstick smear is inadequate, drawn by my unsteady hand. I have urges to break things. This is an interesting feeling. The door swings weakly on its hinges. _Creeeeak._

She stands there, slumped against the wall, her fist covered in glass. Her blood seeps all over the floor in puddles of red, but I think I'm over-exaggerating. To her, they must be oceans, and her fingers twitch wildly. There's a big ol' fragment missing out of the window, and I wonder if this is what trauma looks like when I don't finish my job.

There's no warning, though, when her tiny fist collides with my chest, ignorant to the pain in her own hand. She screams and hits, and screams and hits, until I grab her by the wrist and hold her up with such ease. She's like a little doll, not a pretty one, no, but petite, so simple. She writhes and squirms, and I won't deny that it excites me. I love it when they play the tough act.

"Leave the memories alone! Why me?! Why did you pick _me?! _I'm not even useful! I'm not—"

Over-excitement. The funny little leap in my chest takes over, and I cram her against the wall hard enough that the wind goes _zoop_, right out of her. She tries to swing wildly, but it fails completely and she gives in to throbbing exhaustion. I catch her hand with my free one, and run my tongue along the scarlet trickling through the crevices of her skin, purring with a dark little grin.

"You fuck, you fuck, you fuck, you fuck, you _fuck!"_

"Existence is hard, girly," I won't lie, I'm satisfied she's still got _some_ bark in her, even if her bite is subpar, "Life's a bitch and so are you, I'd say."

There's relief, and that fluttery feeling in my stomach goes away. She's _not_ going to kill herself…now, anyway.

Tomorrow?

Maybe.

Stop thinking on this subject.

"No, it's _not_, it's _not_ funny, and it's _not_ a fucking game!" No one's ever spat in my face like this. This is actually a pretty intriguing experience, so I decide…why not step it up a level?

"Well then, how's about we make it one? Ever played the 'maybe' game?" My eyebrows raise, and when she tries to push against me I growl and click my tongue disapprovingly. Foolish little toy. "Here's how it works..."

I reach into the side of my pants, the waistband, and in her shaking, uninjured hand I securely slip a revolver. I cock it myself, and I kneel enough that I let her point it _right_ in my face. I search her eyes, desperate for a glimmer to match mine, but all I see is abysmal fear. She reeks of it.

"Here's how you play the 'maybe' game, to make it all evened up. Maybe you blow my multi-colored brains out, and get all your funny little revenge for showing you what the world is like, or maybe you don't. Hot-minute for a choice here, Harvey, tick-tock. This is your only shot; let's make it worthwhile, hm?"

But my playful spark is gone. It's a deadly serious game, now, we're playing something too risky for words. I'm not afraid of her and she knows it, but is she scared of me? I think there's just rage, now.

You're a delicious little toy to play with, Harvey. How you do grow on me.

"Well well well, girly?" My smirk threatens to overtake every inch of me. I feel as though I'm just one big expression. Her eyes are resiliently terrified, but her hand holding the gun shakes like mad. The clouds disperse, it looks like, the wild look on her face, and it fades to a dull lack of everything human. "You don't got the _guts_, do ya, pilgrim?"

The guts, no, not the nerve, not the guts. She's chicken-shit, she's a spineless little coward. But I can't help but wonder, for the slightest second, if there's not a _tiny _spark of courage.

I dip in low, awkward, gangly with my knees bent. I feel the muzzle of the gun against me, but I don't show a single ounce of anything but arrogance. My hands are half curled outward, and my left one traces the tip of a finger along the point of her ear. I hum right there, clicking my tongue every so often, purring like a well-oiled motor. I can't help but burst into the briefest chuckle.

"Do yourself a favor, toots, stop playing the self-pity card and let those inhibitions of yours out. Isn't it boring, ignoring natural instinct? Hurt, kill, murder, steal—all those things so we can have a _civilized_ world? I can't kill you for one reason—you're set apart from the rest of them. Some ice runs in those veins of yours, so stop trying to plug it up and bleed like everybody else. You won't. Let yourself loose a little, girly. Be my pawn, and you'll see that life is a lot more interesting when you can be yourself."

I can't stand guns, but that's all these foolish humans comprehend. Shove a revolver in her face, she'll feel everything snap into focus. She's a knife-girl, though; I see it in her already. She's got such potential.

"If I killed you…uh.." She's oddly soft, and I can't help but feel so confused in a momentary lapse of self when I see my hands in this guise without gloves. For a second, I almost accidentally kick into Cleveland-gear, "If I…killed you, wouldn't that just be wasting a good time? Go scribble me a nifty little tale, have that published on in and maybe, just maybe, I won't play with you anytime soon."

Come on, Harvey, you son of a bitch. You've got some life in you, yet.

"And uh…word to the wise?" My eyes dart to her hand, and at the sight of blood I give a little excitable fidget, humming as I go, "You're a _teensy_ little animal—don't shred yourself up like that. Lots of vital veins in that little hand, wrong smash and you've got yourself good as dead."

Fascinated with the sight of it, I take the tips of her fingers between mine and she just stares, haunted ,confused—

"_Aw ree-vower_, girly." And when I turn to go, I hear her sputter out in that stupid, weak little-girl voice of her's—

"The gun—"

"Keep it. A present," I dismiss, wave a hand with my back in the doorway, "from one class of crook to another."


	16. Bisexual, Unstable Cleveland

Thanks so much to everyone, but I'm afraid no more Cleveland chapters for a little bit. For now, we're back on to Harvey. Special thanks to **HarlequinSequins, Sushi Bowl, ACleverName, Othello101, Teenage. Anomaly, R0h **and** Riah Riddle. **Thanks to everyone, really, but if I name everyone I'll be here for awhile XD (That's not arrogance, honestly, I'm just nervous if I go off on constant specifics I'll forget someone). Anyway, I love all of you guys so sincerely, so honestly, and you really all make my day. I'm so happy that I've given you guys something to entertain yourselves with :D It's what I live for, after all! I own Cleave and Harvey, on with the show!

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

I can't sleep alone. This gun he gave me feels diseased in my hand, and my stomach churns at the thought of the words out of his mouth. There's some ice in my blood, he told me, some ice that runs in there, some ruthlessness.

It doesn't make me sick that I'm accused; it makes me sick that I'm agreeing.

I have the same tendencies, the same thoughts. I'd love to give in to my inhibitions, I'd love to let it all go, I'd—

"You need therapy," I snap out of my reverie in my moo-cow pants. I've taken up residence on his couch. Despite Bat-boy, I don't feel safe in there. I don't want to be alone, and Cleveland jumps at the chance to be around me twenty-four seven. "There's some therapy in my freezer."

When I go through the freezer, I find a number of 'colorful' things. There are cartons of Ben and Jerry's all stockpiled in there. We go from _Chocolate Therapy_, to _Coffee Coffee BuzzBuzzBuzz _and _Holy Canoli. _I pause and wonder something—isn't _Holy Canoli_ retired?

I have a plethora of useless knowledge on Ben and Jerry's flavors. I can also remember the populations of towns, totally undisputedly. It's all so useless. I wish I had actual information.

I pull out the _Chocolate Therapy_ and glance up at him confusedly. I mutter, though, "Uh…_Holy Canoli_ is…unavailable, how long has this shit been in there?"

"I…uh…I killed a guy for it." He licks at his lips, kneeling next to his flat-screen television. When I shoot him a questioning look, he looks up with glee swimming wildly in his dark green eyes. He's slowly linking together a tiny, square box. It's white, and I question what he's up to. It's a Nintendo Wii?

He's trying to lure me out of my wallowing depression, hah?

Goodie goodie gumdrops.

"I got..uh.. I got—uh…Rock Band, is it? It's umm—you see, there are drums that you connect to the TV and you play 'em, like all these light-up colors."

"Hey, Cleave?" I plop down on the couch, shoveling some more ice cream in my mouth. _Chocolate Therapy_ works magical wonders for taking my mind off insanities. That gun in the next room is a lingering thought. "Can I ask you something really personal, shit like that?"

I toy with the pack of cigarettes I keep jammed between the couch cushions. I haven't smoked in years, but this anxiety is surfacing my nerves. I have half a mind to steal a bottle of Valium or Prozac.

"Well, yes, I do enjoy rough sex and no, I'm not a virgin—"

"Cleave, serious, for like two seconds." Suddenly, I watch him pout, and he kneels in front of the couch. His arms dangle over his knees, his wrists hang limp, and his eyebrows furrow. The scars in his cheeks, they puff out strangely. Did the swelling never reduce? He looks like an awkward monkey.

"Serious face," Even then, the corners twitch, his grin undying. I cram some more chocolate-covered relief into my mouth. It tastes like sweetened courage.

"How'd you get those scars?"

When I look at him again, his face pales to a deathly white that could shame an envelope. His hands shake, but he gets up so quickly he almost knocks over the end-table. I watch him stomp into the kitchen attached to the living room, ripping a drawer open. He pulls a box off the top of the refrigerator and turns his back to me. I can see him shaking, and laughter echoes across the walls.

"You wanna know how I got 'em?"

"We need to get it out of the way eventually, Cleave."

His back convulses momentarily, and his voice raises a few octaves, "Well, a few years back, I was in love with this guy, right-o? Yep, real jealous type. Handsome, jealous type. They always are, aren't they? –Uh-Uh course. So we're out one day and I meet this girl. Now I'd told him I'd love him, get me? Only him, but she and I are talkin' and we hit it off real well. She asks me if I wanna hang around sometime, back when my face was still pretty, and na-too-really I say yes. He goes off all out of his mind and says he's leaving later that night, got me? I'm devastated and I tell him it's nothing, I didn't mean it. Didn't mean it at all. So I'm sleepin', it's a week or so later, and he—"

He's shaking worse than I can imagine, and I swear I can see him toying the knife around in his cheek, caressing it with the point of a finger. Are his eyes watering?

"—he sticks a knife in my mouth while I'm sleepin'. I'm all nice and wrapped up and cozy and 'Cleveland', he says, grinning from ear to ear, 'Cleveland, no one's ever gonna think you're pretty ever again. No one but me will take you'. And he drags it across from cheek to cheek. He always said I had the dandiest smile."

Is it wrong that I feel awful for him?

Suddenly, my heart drops. I feel sick, somehow.

"Look at it this way," When he laughs, it's a wheeze, pathetic, painful, and his head falls back. He can't breathe, that must be it, and his fingers are twitching at the counter as they grip; "_Now_ I'm _always_ smiling!"

Bisexual Cleveland is an interesting thought. Was he attractive once? I guess I can vaguely see it.

There's silence.

What do I say to this?

Nice, opening your mouth, Harvey.


	17. Rock Band Cleveland

So now, relationship-wise, ala Harvey and Cleveland, I think we might really be getting somewhere :D Well, now that he's a panicked, anxiety-ridden psycho since he thinks she's gonna kill herself. I won't lie, she wants to pretty badly. Oh! By the way:

If you check out my profile page, you'll see the link to a Harvey/Cleveland picture as illustrated by **ACleverName**. Go worship them and go look, because I certainly do. XD (Insert slow clap here)

Anyway, thanks to all the regulars who've read this stuff and are being patient with how weird it's getting. Cleveland's homicidal tendencies with his knife-lie make me laugh, but only because I picture him panicking so damn much. If he has any Valium, he better pray she not find it XD Anyway, I'm rambling, by this point. Oh, and on the subject of the Anonymous reviewer—The Joker is owned by Bob Kane, Bill Finger and Jerry Robinson. Though I totally adore Heath Ledger and worship his Joker interpretation, he's not the one who possesses the character. Also, unless you've somehow found a Cleveland running around DC Comics, I do own him seeing as I created his character as a basis off the Joker, who he is not _completely._

Why do I always feel the need to explain myself? Bah, whatever. On with the show!

XxXxXxXxXx

I swear it, I can't believe it, and his mood seems wrecked. I'd never think _anything_ could ruin Cleveland's undisputedly happy-go-lucky attitude, and one little question has him almost _scowling._

My hand is messily bandaged and Cleave, in his infinite wisdom and gentle, loving care (see: murderous, sadistic and painful) has removed the shards of glass I've managed to lodge in there. When I wonder if he's that psychopath who's been tormenting me, I push the thought away because I just don't want to think it. I want to just _get him out of my head._

On my way out, Cleveland mutters for me to come straight back right after I'm done. I'm too unhinged to hear.

(Some dark alleys, a bus-ride and a few graciously lit city-blocks later)

When I push open the doors to the massive office-building, I can't imagine what a mess I look like. My hand isn't the worst of it, but the little red, irritated cuts on my face are almost healed, but the color is still fading. I exude an air of psychosis by this point, I figure.

"Mister Wayne?" I manage, when I sit down in front of his desk. He's devastatingly handsome to the point that would kill most women, but I'm lucky if I like _anyone_ by this point. I've had nut-cases licking me all week. "Mister Wayne, I-I need to—I need to ask—"

"You're Harvey Tinkle, right?" He flashes a smile that would drag the populace to its knees in worship, "You live in my apartment complex."

His cold, blue eyes make me nervous. I kind of want to crawl under the chair I'm sitting in and hide. My hand hurts, and I wish I had some sedatives.

"Mister Wayne, I just—I need the window—I need the win—I need the window fixed." I can't help but scowl to myself at how small I feel in that instant. I feel about the size of a mouse with the power-house of a businessman and his Armani Suit. He glances over at me through slightly raised eyebrows, but his smile just kind of widens. I look away, and wonder if I'm blushing. I do that, whenever I'm embarrassed. I stutter like a motherfucker, I swear.

"What room do you happen to be in, Miss Tinkle?" I flinch, but keep muttering.

"Harvey, just…it's—uh…just Harvey."

"Harvey? That's an interesting name—"

"Yeah, for a _girl_, I fuckin' know."

He winces, but his smile doesn't falter. In fact, it morphs into a brief grin, and I realize he has a real live sense of humor that he _didn't_ leave at prep school, "I was just going to leave it at 'interesting name', but I guess you bring up a point. I'll have it done by tomorrow, _Harvey."_

I wave him a thank you and hastily depart before I can't walk anymore. I stumble when I get nervous, awkward—well; I don't feel one hundred percent at all, anyway. Along with the licking, nut-cases have been slamming me against things all week. I think people are convinced I'm a six-foot wrestler, with how man-handled I've been in the time I've lived in Gotham. I wish I could just _leave._

The trip home (see: putrid hell-hole which I consider an apartment) is an anxious one. Every dark corner makes me peer frightfully, like some kind of drooling alien-monster is going to pop out behind me. It's not an alien I'm afraid of, though, so much as a huge, make-up wearing freak with lipstick and a purple suit. He scares the ever-loving hell out of me.

When I reach home sweet home (see: hateful pile of bricks), I ascend the box of complete misery, a.k.a the elevator, and make my way up the creaky stairs. When I reach Cleveland's apartment, warily peeking into my own, he's ferociously pounding on a seat of colored, plastic drums with a tie around his head. There are notes flickering wildly across the screen, and his foot works at what looks like a pedal on the ground. Every so often he stops, to let out the kind of bloodcurdling _WHOOP! _of a sound you'd expect from the fat, drunk guy at a Springsteen concert.

"Cleave…the fuck are you…doing?"

"It's Enter Sandman!"

"…By Metallica?"

"On the uh—" pause. He licks at his lips and when he looks up to glance at the ceiling, he bounces on the couch cushion, "—the drums."

"Vacate the couch premises, man, I need a nap."

"No, no! Take the guitar! Play with me, come on! And then, when you learn the notes to the intro, you can audition for Metallica!"

Owch. Few Metallica fans around the world just cringed.

"Why sleep all day? We've got a _very_ large television and a big, plastic drum set!" He cackles riotously, and I watch with fascination as his excessively long leg stomps rhythmically at the pedal on the floor. I can't help but feel honestly amazed that he can hit the shiny, glowy little notes going across the television set.

Somehow, my sarcasm is so endless that I hope he'll just transfer all his energy into bashing on the plastic circles.


	18. Embarrassing Cher Cleveland

In a span of two days, Cleveland has removed all sharp objects from my view and I don't tell him about the gun stashed in the dresser next door in my fuck-hole. He refuses to let me near anything. I also found out there's a plethora of Ritalin in his cabinets, and a few bottles of Prozac. When I pulled out the Ritalin, my first question was how long it'd been since he'd taken that. He just laughed like a wild dog. I was serious.

When I wake up, it's to the very strangest thing. The TV is blaring, the news is apparently yowling about some hospital that blew up, and at the moment the stereo is at a ridiculous volume.

_Do you beLIIIIIEVE in life after love?!_

I traipse my way out of Cleveland's bed (he's dragged the recliner, all blood-red and ripping at the seams) into the bedroom and obsessively watches me sleep. When I tell him not to, he insists it's to be _sure_ I'm not going to smother myself with a pillow.

Not only that, I'm now wearing his boxers. They have little ice cream cones all over them, in various, silly colors. The majority are pink, which is good for me. Bubblegum pink is my favorite, after all. No, I'm being dead serious.

_And I KNOOOOW that I'll get through thiiiIIIIS! 'Cause ah KNOOOOW that ah am stroooONNNG!_

I flinch, and hastily twitch away, staring through my narrowed eyes at Cleveland as he ferociously bangs the drums and sings along at the top of his horrible, nasal, repulsive voice. On Rock Band, I see the ridiculous amounts of shiny little squares run eagerly up the screen, and he hits one with ease. The only ones that slip by are the red notes, and as though he reads my mind (see: clockwork) he just says, quite mechanically, "I don't like the color—uh, red, I don't like _red."_

He licks his lips wildly, his curly, dark blonde hair flouncing about in the meager tie it's bound by. I'm only half awake, but he doesn't stop in his maddened escapade. The drums are dull, and they _THUNK! _horribly. The sound is enough to make me flinch in irritable anger.

"Where's that music coming from?"

I squint, and my glasses slide halfway down my face. My hair is a shuffled mess of mildly curly auburn-ish brown, and I don't, frankly, care. He's Cleveland, and I'd hate to say I'm comfortable enough to not give half a damn and look like crap in front of him.

…When did he get an XBOX 360?

The massive, white chunk of hardware with the glowing green X sits triumphantly atop a pathetic snack table. The thing looks pathetic, and it halfway wobbles where it is.

"I hooked the uh—the XBOX up to the—ya know, ya know, ya know TV, on the video setting number three, 'cause I like the number three, is all." He grins like mad from ear to ear, all the things said of a few days ago forgotten, and when he finishes the song he goes into a frenzied drum solo that leaves me standing there in confusion and listening to Cher on full blast.

..Is this Song for the—

_THIS IS A SONG—FOR THE LONELEEEEH!_

I cover my ears and grimace, but I only succeed in apparently egging Cleveland on against my ear to sing at massive volumes. I only let out a low growl of a sound, one that slowly changes into a dull roar until I have no choice but to stomp into the kitchen, trying to scream above the…Cher.

"But _Haaaaahv—"_

"Look, don't _Haaaaahvey_ me at…two o'clock in the afternoon!"

He blinks at me. He's never heard me raise my voice to him like that before, and I swear there's hurt in his puppy-dog eyes. His never-ending, green, puppy-dog eyes. How could anyone _ever_ take him seriously with eyes like that?

_Can you hear me toNIIIIIGHT!?_

"Can you _please_ for the love of motherfucking _GOD_ turn down your homo-erotic XBOX?"

"Ya gonna make gay jokes at me for the rest of forever and ever and ever now?" His face breaks into a huge, clever grin and I smack my palm against my face and moan with endless exhaustion. I resist the urge to shove the wooden spoon with which I prepare bisquick through the window.

_THIS IS A SONG! FOR THE LONELEH!_


	19. Cleveland On Edge

It's three in the morning. Cleveland has succeeded in playing 'Song for the Lonely' on repeat about nine-zillion times, and I've had to listen to every last one. He then attempted to sing 'You'll Be in My Heart' off the Disney's Tarzan soundtrack to me at a ridiculous volume. I told him if he got any closer to my face I'd shred off what was left of his. Overall, it was a good night.

When I look over, he's sitting in the recliner near my bed, one leg crossed over the other. His eyes, I swear, glow green in the dark, but I'm probably just hallucinating. He busily thumbs through another page, and I wonder what he's reading. I can't see it, anyway.

I know, though, that I'm not getting an ounce of sleep. The Bat-signal's eerie radiance shines through vaguely past Cleveland's window. I can bitterly mutter to myself that it's not _his_ room it blasts, full-shine in.

"Why ain'tcha sleepin'?" I shudder and scowl at myself when he licks his lips, and the _smack_ sound that they make is unavoidable. Even when I can't _see_ him doing it, still, I always know. It's enough to make a girl curl into a very small ball. "What? Ya—Ya havin' issues?"

"Cold, dude."

"Oh, I—uh…well, I think there's another blankie in the closet, unless it's 'cause Mr. Snookums is next door and—"

I listen to his statement die off into a snarky laugh when I grunt as though to cut him off. He's not allowed to make fun of Mr. Snookums.

"Figuratively, not really physically."

"Ooh, well aren't we just a little _feeeeee_-la-so-fer, now?" He cackles, again, and sometimes I wish I could just cut out his vocal cords with a harpy.

"You're doing that thing where you think you're funny but you're not, Cleave."

"Fine—" he pauses, licks his lips. The sound is outrageously loud. I hear him put on a German accent, "Zen vat ees it zat twoubles your sleep pehtterns, mein freund?"

My eyes roll, and I dodge the subject entirely, nervous to tell him. How can someone react to something like that? He sidles a little closer to me, as though listening, intent. I can tell because the god-awful sound he makes with his mouth gets louder and louder. I almost want to kill him.

"You know what I hate about Reeses Puffs? I like the cereal soggy, and Reeses Puffs float so you really can't push them down and they really don't get—"

"Ding ding ding, we have a loser." He gives a half-laugh of a noise, then I feel him lean in enough that I can feel him breathe. In a fit of anxiety, I turn over so that my back is facing him. I hate that I swear to god I can feel his eyes along my back. When I moved in, I figured he was a lecherous creep, now I realize that he's a sweetheart, with lecherous _tendencies._

Like breathing all over me.

"So, ya gonna play the evasion game, miss clever, miss bright-light, or are you gonna out with it? Come _ooooon, _or I'll prod it outta ya." Prod? I grimace again. I find sexual innuendos in everything humanly possible. The word _prod_ out of Cleveland's creepy, split mouth is enough to scare me a little.

Come to think of it, all the words out of Cleave's creepy, split mouth scare me a little.

"The idea of prodding sounds delightful, how's about—"

"_Ooooooooh,_ you wouldn't like my prodding, little missy."

I can suppose he's right about that.

"I…uh…well…you see.."

When I go to adjust my pillow, the grasshopper apparently jumps and within seconds he's splayed halfway across me and his spidery freak-fingers are pinching at my painful wrist like a clamp. Now, he's breathing _in my face_ and I'm trying to _three two one _not panic, Harvey.

"You, ah, you shouldn't, ah.." His voice has become an intensely low hiss. His eyes are flicking back and forth, back and forth and he licks his lips over and over. It's erratic and never ending. "You shouldn't…ah no…you…you shouldn't do that…you—uh…shouldn't do that…see you—you shouldn't—"

"_Cleveland!"_ He's too big and too powerful and too frightening and now oh now he's way too close and I'm panicking and—"Cleveland, you fucking stupid son of a goddamn bitch, you motherfucking—get _OFF!"_

When he climbs off, one twig leg at a time, he starts gesturing wildly and laughing what seems like anxiously. He's halfway flailing, talking fast, "Ya—Ya shouldn't…uh…ya know—do that."

"Do you honestly think I'm this fucking intent on offing myself?"

"You should _NOT DO THAT!"_

His voice elevates to an unearthly roar of a sound and then he descends into some form of hysterical cackle. I can't deny that I don't feel the most intense surge of fear I have ever experienced.

Overall, I think I'm still trying to catch my breath.

It's been half an hour.


	20. One Upped Cleveland

So I didn't intend to write an update until about three in the morning, like usual, but then I happened to read a review by **Dancing-Pinky-Flower** who stated she was waiting for another chapter because it was before noon where she lives…and suddenly, I thought 'seriously, Kat, you can get off your lazy ass and update before then!' So…that's what I'm doing. Let's hope I'm still living up to expectations—thanks to all of you so very much for your feedback, really, it makes me so happy. I appreciate that everyone likes my work, and I'll try to private-message back everyone I possibly can. I own Cleave and Harvey, but that's basically it. Again, thank you so much :D!

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

I wait patiently and listen to myself breathe while he calms down. His outburst leaves the air vibrating with a hot tinge, an impossible one. I can hardly suck in my own meager breaths. It's deadly quiet, and whenever he turns a page, the unnerving sound of his awkward lick fills the air.

Where he touched me still burns, both literally and figuratively. I don't like the feeling that he can destroy me with his scrawny little fingers. I don't like the sensation that, if he wanted to, he could just…push.

He knows it. Otherwise, he wouldn't be sitting in the quivering silence I keep sensing. He's jittery; I can hear the chair rocking back and forth. He's dying to say something, to utter even half a word but I've set him on the very edge of anxiety. There's a conflicting sensation in him that I can hear—he wants to hyperactively clamor on to me, but the other piece of him completely refuses to speak up. Sometimes, he's like a stubborn child.

We sit like that 'til the sun comes up, and I finally manage to turn over, to get the guts to look him right in the eyes. The sudden comprehension of his new 'attitude' has me rattled right down to my insides.

He fidgets, and when I squint I realize he's reading _War and Peace_. I remember back to high school when I took an AP English course, and they'd forced me to read it. Needless to say, I used sparknotes the entire time because I found it boundlessly boring. Every single page was just a pile of over-descriptive crap, and I couldn't sit there and tolerate all of it. I failed the quizzes. Then again, I fail most things.

"Pretty bird like you, should be singin'."

He knows what happens even before he looks up to see me. No, not even a speck of anything. He just keeps reading, and his mouth twitches continuously as his fingers run along the words.

"You're not gonna drop that, are you?"

"Well, ya see, well, well, well," He puts the book down on his knee, jingling a little on the cushion. I swear, sometimes, I just want to—

He pouts, pathetic to the umpteenth degree, and I find myself victim to those big, green eyes. His right cheek gives a great jolt. I wish he'd spend more than two seconds without laughing at me, but for him it seems impossible. "If ya wanna bottle up all your thoughts in that half-red-head feel free, but here I am, your own personal shrink. Look! No charge—hell, I'll pay _you! _Whaddya want? Diamonds? Rubies? Emeralds? Come on, come on, _taaaaawl-kuh_ to me."

I roll my eyes and grope for my glasses, only to find that—

"Eye-wear for your thoughts, Ha_rrrr_vey?"

He rolls the 'r' in my name differently, this time, like a cat's purr. He's full of surprises, I suppose, and I just stare at him flatly in total irritation. Is this necessary? Do I seriously need to be tormented like this?

"Give me the glasses, Cleveland."

"You're usually so…hum.… _quick_ to open that mouth of yours, why the sudden…_hesitation?"_

"I said _give _me them, you fuck, I can't see worth shit."

He giggles and I try to swipe at them, but he just stomps his feet like the bully who knows how to tease the five year old's and leans in. Why is he so close to my face again? His hand holds them behind his back, and his teeth bare but I can't figure out if it's a warning sign or a game, "Say pretty pretty _please_, sweetheart."

Suddenly, I realize something. I realize…I have a great way of getting back at him, now.

I shove my wrist suddenly into the corner of the headboard and press as hard as I can until the cuts poke through the bandaging, and I hiss in my mildly low voice, "Say pretty pretty please, _sweetheart."_

The glasses fall from his grip, and when they drop I hear that dull _clank_ of a sound. And like I expect, just like a child who hasn't gotten his way, he crams his hands between his thighs and looks away, the scars at his mouth twitching in bad humor. I lie back down, and reach over until I can shove my glasses on my face, satisfied with my 'win'. Here and there I get over on him, but he is king when it comes to arguing.

_Flick._

Dissatisfied, he pounds a fist at the remote on the nightstand and it flies into the air, flipping until it lands on the floor. Apparently, he often throws temper tantrums as well.

_The notorious 'Clown Prince of Crime', as some are beginning to call him, has not been sighted for some time. After the destruction of Gotham's central hospital, it's as though this villainous crusader of destruction has made a mark and simply disappeared. Is his next horrible terrorist action in the works, or is it truly that 'the Joker' has hung up his purple suit for good? This and more later this evening on Gotham One News._

"Cheap," Cleveland cackles, snorting distastefully at the television set. He points a thin finger, thumping at the ground with a foot. He's such an animated guy, it's the strangest thing I've ever seen, "What kinda ree-speck-table guy wears a purple suit? That's _cheap."_


	21. Rescue Efforts

When I get home from submitting the most burdensome article I've ever written, I walk in to something I don't expect.

Emptiness.

Cleveland's apartment looks frantically ransacked and yet the subject in question is nowhere to be found. There's no psycho smacking the drums on Rock Band, no stick figure playing paddle-ball on a ripped-up recliner. There's just a lot of air.

The television blares to a discomforting level, but I'm unfazed. I can feel it raising in my throat, though, a steady vile panic. Where's Cleveland? I'm going to admit it, casually, as honestly as I possibly can, I love the man. I don't know what I'd do without the guy. In a week, I've never felt so attached to anyone. In a week, I've met the only person who's ever taken the time to pay attention to me. In a week, I've made acquaintance with the biggest fucking freak I've ever met and fallen in some form of sick, ridiculous love with him.

"Cleveland!?"

I start throwing open his doors. The bathroom, the bedroom, anything, whatever it may be—

_The Joker, who is currently in custody of the Gotham City Police Department, will be kept in a holding cell until proper facilities are readied at Arkham Asylum. He has admitted to masquerading under the alias 'Cleveland Roger Punsworth'—_

My world caves in. All at once, it's noises off. Everything stops making sense, the reporter's stupid, practiced drone fades into the background. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears; I can feel the pulse beating all the way down to my damn thumb.

_After you, __**girly.**_

_Am I right, or am I right, __**girly**__?_

The pieces are in front of me, now, obvious pieces for me to openly witness. The laugh, _girly, girly, girly._ I hear it resounding in my brain like an echo, but I could honestly care less. When I trudge to the doorway of his apartment, the only noises registering to me are the dull sounds of my pathetic steps.

Captivity.

Cleveland.

Captured.

Captivity.

Within seconds, I find I'm back in the apartment I was too afraid to be alone in. I was too afraid to do a lot of things. Too afraid, too afraid. I ransack my own drawers and there it is.

Sleek. Silver. It feels cool and comforting to my fingertips, and I wrack it wildly with my eyes in a frantic form of desperation. It's a pistol, but in my hands I can't help but wonder if it's more than that. Does the weapon make the girl, or does the girl make the weapon? I've never even held one before, but there's a comfort to it, an appreciation. There's the weight that feels like too much for my tiny hand and, above all, there's a power I feel like I can't contain.

_Some ice runs in those veins of yours, so stop trying to plug it up and bleed like everybody else. You won't. Let yourself loose a little, girly. Be my pawn, and you'll see that life is a lot more interesting when you can be yourself._

I know I should feel sick that he was right. I should be disgusted with myself, repulsed, annoyed, but it doesn't hit me. No, none of it touches me but one fact.

My best friend is in the custody of an entire police force and for the rest of my life I will have nothing and no one.

And for the rest of my life it will be just _me._

"Cleave," I hear myself murmuring, pocketing the gun after being sure the safety's on. I at least know that much (see: Dukes of Hazzard), thankfully. "Cleave, you fucking jerk, you jack-off, you dumb _fuck._"

I never figured my heart could beat this fast. If I were a pigeon, I would have exploded by this point. This thought crosses my mind with the comical image of a pile of fluttering feathers, but going through Cleveland's stuff all I find are various colored boxers and argyle socks strewn everywhere. I rip the drawers out, and there it is, my lucky prize.

There are several little, sphere-ish objects and I delve within to pull one out, silently triumphant. A laughing gas grenade.

I'm dead-on determined.

I'm getting him the hell out of there.

Harvey Tinkle's going to help spring the most notorious villain in all of Gotham City.

And fuck damn it, Harvey Tinkle's going to do it the right way.

I realize, formulating a number of thoughts within my mind, that it's beginning to get dark out. And when it's dark, I always find I have an unsuspecting visitor on my ledge.

An unsuspecting visitor who has recently become an extremely wanted criminal.

Tonight, I tell myself, I will do a number of inexcusable things. I will break a psychopath out of a jail, I will (maybe? Who knows) shoot a few people and I will freely condemn what was once this city's protector.

I will do all of this for my own selfish reasons. You know what I won't do?

Care. Duh.

I duck behind Cleveland's wall, the phone desperately hunched against my face, and with shaky hands I dial nine-one-one. I'm not scared, as strange as this is. I feel electrified, the most alive I've been in years. I feel like every nerve in my body branches off into a collection of complex endings that attach directly to the world around me. Colors are more vibrant. Everything has a buzz.

Adrenaline, isn't that it?

"Hello?! Hello?!" When an operator picks up, I whisper against the receiver. I speed my breaths up so I sound frantic as ever, gasping into it like I'm being held at gunpoint, "I-I need the police force here i-immediately, the—the Batman, the Batman is here!"

Let's clear out the place as much as possible. I've never done this before, but I'm someone driven. I'm coming out on top this time, I'm doing this.

"O-Oh! Where's this call—"

"Forty-fourth and Broadway, I'm in room one-oh-four on forty-fourth and Broadway!"

The lie tastes natural from my lips. He deserves to suffer for damning my best friend, if you ask me. I'm vindictive, I'm unforgiving, and I'm stricken with a sick form of stomach-twisting righteousness provided by the firearm in my hands. A gun makes a girl a God. Makeup makes a man a God. Makeup and a switchblade, apparently.

I pause when I glance at his dresser, and I see something shiny, glinting from there. I recognize it—it's the harpy he killed that kid with, and I hesitate to touch it as though its sheer existence will melt the flesh from my hand. With a funny, awkward little crayon-scribble of a heart, there's a paper beneath the blade that reads, very simply, '_girly'._

I cram that into the pocket of my jeans as well, and for the last time, I figure, with an absence of sense and mind, I throw the door open.

The crash it makes at the wall is unavoidable and I step out onto the elevator.

My heart is in my throat. My eyes burn with an overdose of excitement.

Time to play the game.


	22. Awkward Success

You ruined me. You selfish, stupid, manipulative fuck. I know I should be angry, I should want to hurt him, hate him, hit him, anything at all besides how I really feel, but I can only think one thing. I can hate him as much as I like once he's with me again.

Dark alley after dark alley doesn't feel like a threat, anymore. I could care less, in fact. I'm not bothered, I'm not nervous….it's this gun, it's all this gun and the endless assurance that everything he said was one hundred percent true.

(A jittery bus ride and a few suddenly repulsive Gotham streets later)

When I get to MCU, despite the fact that it's also half-blown out, I notice the obnoxious lack of cop cars. My bet is that they're after the Batman that I've so graciously provided them with. The sheer pulse of energy this attitude gives me keeps the red in my vision and the hop in my step, and the moment I slam open the doors to MCU, ignore the receptionist and keep walking to the inner chamber, I realize how little of me is really left.

All at once, the veil of panic lifts when I hear the sound of slow, animated clapping and that voice, thank _God_, that voice.

"There she is—uh—woman uh the hour! Knew ya had it all planned out, baby—"

"Shut up."

He gives this…slow, serpentine grin but doesn't move from his spot jittering on the little bench, his hand cuffed to the bars behind him. Whoever's guarding him, it's a massive kind of guy with scarce amounts of fuzzy, brown hair and a short, blonde excuse for a woman who stares up at me in confusion.

"O-kay, so this is how this is gonna go down." I raise the gun, and without warning I point it straight at Cleveland. The other hand harbors that grenade of his, and the minute he's got the firearm right in his line of vision he falls into whooping laughter. "Two options. Either you let him go, or two things are going to happen. One, I'm going to blow his fucking makeup onto the back wall, and every crook gaining off him in Gotham is gonna converge on all of you like white on rice and, two, I'll blow MCU to all hell with his handy-dandy o-o-object—" that stutter, a stutter I would _never_ get rid of, "—right here."

The woman speaks up, and when she goes for her gun for even a moment I click my tongue and stare my shaky gaze to my own pistol. She stops, her eyes, a rich, dark brown, fiery. She's not happy with me. "Why do you want him out of here? Who are you, anyway?"

"I don't—really…think that's important in the first place. The only thing that _is_ right now is opening that cell."

"Whoo, toots, when did ya get that sense of humor?! It's _mag-knee-fuh-sent_, I tells ya!" I look at him, then, Cleveland, the guy who almost murdered me just for even _looking_ like I was going to kill myself, the guy who bought a number of expensive electronics to _keep_ me from killing myself. This is that guy. This loud, obnoxious wolf in sheep's clothing.

"I think I said…y-yes, that was it—_shut up._"

"Ya know," He purrs, and leans forward so the larger man can hear him. His eyes half-lid, and his tongue darts out, licks at his lips like a hungry dog. "If you don't listen to her, she ain't playin' no game. She'll shee_-oot_ either of ya, promise, cross my festering little heart."

I hate it when he uses that voice. He uses it on me when he wants to get me to do something, like, say, _move in with him._

"Unlock the cell d-d-door."

"If that's your serious voice, girly, you're gonna need some _reaaaaal_ work on that."

Whose side is he on, anyway?

The blonde does so, her eyes sharp, her hands shaking. She's angry with me, and the massive guy just stares with these passive, blue eyes. I don't think he wants to deal with me, and I don't think he cares. I suppose after spending all this time playing cat and mouse with a notorious murderer, you start to just get tired of life.

I guess ol' Cleave's shown everyone there's a little less to believe in when it comes to the world.

When I step in the cell, his head lolls lazily to his shoulder and he gnaws at the corner of his mouth, those eyes caked in piles of black trying to peek upwards enough to see me. To look him in the eye sends my brain into a frenzied panic, so I avoid it, and forget something vital.

The blonde, the fool of a blonde, tries to close the cell door on me. It's Cleveland that's got it. His ridiculously long legs suddenly lash out, and before I know it I hear a shrill scream of a sound and realize that the flinging door has swiped her across the nose. She's gushing amounts of blood that make me look away and halfway gag, and he just slithers briefly over to stare hotly at me.

"Suddenly lost ya _nooiiiive_, girly?" He licks at his lips again, his tongue a wild, ruby red, his lips the very same, "What's'uh matter? Big, bad Harvey's scared of a little _blood?"_

"Look, you can terrorize me, or I can spring you. Take your pick."

"Oh, but _Hahvey_, we always have such a _harrrrr_-monious combination." His eyebrows raise, they wiggle, and I realize in that one comical gesture that I'm dealing with a murderous psychopath who has the sense of humor of a bachelor who never grew up.

The female is still making a fuss and a fit about her pretty, destroyed face and I shove the muzzle of the gun to the chain on the handcuff, blowing it to smithereens as I shake from the gun's recoil. His hand suddenly cups at my chin, and his smirk, his split-open, repulsive smirk, becomes something of a leer, "What's'uh matter, toots, the cuffs too kinky for ya, can't handle the heat?"

I flinch, cringe, grimace, all of the above, and smack his hand off my face. I growl, my teeth clenched, feeling suddenly filthier than ever before, "Let's go, _Cleave."_

"Oh—hoo hoo, gee, Harvs, we've gotten pretty _doe-me-nearing_, haven't we? Knew you had it in you somewhere in there—"

"Find the most fuckin' deserted place you can think of and get us there, _now._"

"How do you propose we get there ,toots? Gotta magic carpet to match that red badge'uh courage?"

I wonder if he's testing me or he legitimately wants to see what I'll do. I feel like an ant under a magnifying glass, an amoeba thrown ruthlessly under his rose-colored microscope. Is it ironic? The person I feel most comfortable around is also the person who makes me frightened out of my wits. Talk about dysfunctional.

"…Do you know how to hot-wire a car?"

"Now _that's_ the clever little minx I _cul-tee-oh-vated!_ Why yes, we may utilize my skills involving an _ow-tee-mobile_." He keeps clicking his tongue, then, in time, in rhythm, to the endless melody of a casual beat. He shakes me down to my core, "Well, let's see, what does I like, what does I like…."

Oh, for the love of _God_, Cleveland.


	23. Becoming

Welcome to my world.

My name is Harvey AnneMarie Tinkle, and in the span of a week I have become a witness to a number of crimes, been used as bait for yet more crimes to be committed, seen the death of a so-called innocent, become wildly depressed had an emotional breakdown and busted out the criminal who was the cause of it all.

And why?

Because I have grown attached to this criminal and here I am, reflecting in the passenger's seat of an Oldsmobile as a madman with face-paint drives at ninety miles an hour to a warehouse with shattered windows where I'm convinced he'll rape me.

I don't expect mercy. I'm not willing to show any.

"Get near the apartment," I mutter. Next to him, I feel about two inches tall as he erupts in a fit of giggles with every time the car swerves, "You get me, Cleave? I need to get some—"

"Oh, _wooooonderful_ day for a joy-ride, ain't it, ol' Harv? Please keep your hands and legs inside the vehicle at _aaaaallll_ times!"

I can't suppress the cat-like claw I keep on the hand-hold as he hits a hundred and turns a corner, proclaiming a loud, Rayman-like _YAHOOOOOOO_ right out the window.

"Listen, ET-phone-homo, I need to get to the fucking apar—"

"Oi, Harvey, you're so uptight! Ya need to relax a little, stop thinkin' up all these silly _plans_ of yours. Come on, enjoy the thickly polluted air of scenic Gotham City, take in the sights, my dear! You're playin' with the big boys now, why not _chee-erish_ it a little bit, hah? Why ya gotta play all business like that? You're gonna make an old clown frown."

"Because if one of us doesn't keep a fucking head on our shoulders then this is all going to hell. I just became a wanted _fucking_ criminal because of y—"

I shiver, suddenly, because now he's driving the car, yes, his hand is striving to keep it straight up the deserted, filthy Gotham street but his other one is clamped at my chin and he's doing that _thing_ again where he breathes in my face and snarls like some feral, rabid dog, "You _waaaaaaanted_ it, girly, you were _beeeeggin'_ to be let outta that rusty cage of yours. You know what I did? I set you _free_."

He snaps back, leaving me to recoil and sink in my seat. He sucks the courage out of me, I swear, and he does it on purpose. He loves to kick me in the stomach when he knows I'm already writhing in pain on the floor.

He's a filthy, filthy man. In more ways than one.

It makes me sick to my stomach that those few minutes I spent without him felt like being drowned, like being a fish right out of water. Well, if fish out of water feel like they're having excessive panic attacks crashed with some claustrophobia, then that was what I felt like.

"Just…I need to get something, it's important. You can't come with me, I—"

"The coppers all went there to fetch Batty McBattso, is that correcto, girly? Someone played phone a friend, and they ran off to arrest him while I was brooding all sad and cold and _lonely-like_ in my cell."

As if he _ever_ gets lonely—I question what of Cleveland was true and what was false. The pieces of me that want to make this all a dream and know I'll go back to my miserable life with my alcoholic-gambler parents and tedium want to believe he is. Despite my difficulty to perceive the dog from the human, he rings true, he breathes and he is protected by me.

"Yeah, I—"

He licks at his lips, pulling the car over with a deafening screech, and when he glances over the look on his face is utterly passive. He licks his lips casually, his eyebrows seeming to quirk. His eyes roll, like he's almost bored, but his hands don't move from the wheel. There's a pang of anxiety that rises in my chest, swelling gradually, but I push it down, along with the taste of temporary puke.

"You gave in _the Bat_, girly. I knew it was you from the second they all ran out hollerin' and hootin'. Who else would get up the guff to toss a fella out on their ear when all he was trying to do was protect her from _meeeee?_"

What I _want_ to say is that there's nothing that I need to be protected from, but I'm suddenly aware of the _do not cross_ Joker-tape that this relationship involves. I have to learn to simmer down a bit, I think.

When he sticks his head out the window, he hastily glances from left to right, utterly sure there's no one around. I know this area as the absolute back-woods of Gotham, or rather, the place where no one wants to go. Here, it smells of perpetual piss and dog-shit, I have determined. I had a job interview, here, a few days ago. I suppose that shitty tabloids develop _literal_ shit.

Without warning my door flings open and I hear that nasal, completely irritating voice drone, "Need help steppin' outta the carriage, toots?"

Eye roll. I totally ignore him, then, and hop onto the pavement. The buildings are tall, most a dark grey or a sooty black, and each breath feels stale, hot. A hand falls to my lower back and shoves me along, but all I can make is a sad squeak of a sound. I can't verbally protest, he's just too quick.

The building we enter is breathing with life itself. Spider-webs line the walls in terrible piles and rats of various species (see: Batman's long-lost cousins) run eagerly along the floor. I don't make a sound, despite my growing fear that we'll be attacked by the chupacabra or, worse, Commissioner Gordon.

"Can you sit still for ten minutes?"

"What'd I say 'bout those _plaaaaans_—" his eyes glow in the dark, I swear, a hot shade of cobra-green, "—girly?"

"It's not a plan, it's an idea. Plans require careful thought, ideas are sporadic. I'm not breaking rules, _bucko._ I'll bring you back your makeup; goodness knows you won't be able to go another hot-minute without perfectly applied Maybelline products."

I point to the ground, as if to instruct 'sit' and he makes a slightly loud pant, eagerly bouncing on his heels. When I step out, I yowl an "I'm not fucking kidding, Cleave!"

I watch his eyes as I walk out the rickety, dilapidated door. They don't leave me for a single second when I leave the poorly held-up establishment. I pray to myself that the place doesn't cave in on Mr. God in there while I'm gone. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't rig a bomb out of lint and spider-limbs.

(About two blocks and a whole lot of paranoia later)

I make absolute sure all the cop cars that were supposedly at my home are gone now, and when I'm sure I'm alone and they're likely successfully chasing Batman, I ascend the box of ample dreariness a.k.a the elevator and step off onto my floor. It feels so different, now, _I_ feel so different, now.

My apartment looks like the emptiest place I've ever witnessed. The police have clearly done a number on the room, uncaringly barreling in and ripping apart the entirety to hopelessly accost a guy who I was sure wouldn't hurt a fly, unless it was an evil one.

My drawers, I begin to realize, contain piles of disappointment. Old pictures of me as a little kid (see: things I want to burn), old articles, clippings from various things I'd had published in pathetic, small-time gigs. How long have I been this incredible loser?

I lied to him, ladies and gentlemen, all the way back in that dust-crawling filth-pile. I lied without a second thought and the genius Joker didn't see through me.

I have a plan.

He's not going to agree with it, but it bubbles in my brain like a concoction of ingeniously dastardly proportions. Scratch that: I hate the word 'dastardly', I always thought it sounded like an adjective used to describe 'the hobgoblin' from the Spider-Man comics, who I've always thought was the stupidest villain ever.

Perhaps the word 'vile' will replace 'dastardly'. It's so much more…menacing? Is there a camp for this? Where can I learn to become 'menacing'?

There it is. My eyes, my narrowly grey eyes, spark when I stumble upon the outfit, and for a second or two I wear a subtle grin that floats all the way to the top of my head in tingly self-satisfaction. The dress from the masquerade feels warm, shimmery in my hands.

"Harley Quinn," I murmur to myself within the confines of my empty past, "That's what I'll be."

The words sound hushed, reverent, as though it's a spell unwilling to be spoken.

"Harley Quinn."


	24. Poorly Stitched Costumes

For those of you freaking out mildly because we've 'lost' Harvey/Cleave, don't worry XD I promise you, neither of them are gone. And Harvey is _completely_ not the Harley you're envisioning. The day Harvey even smiles I'm sure will be the day the world ends. And there's still Cleave in there, no matter what, it's just that right now they're in a bit of a complicated situation. That gawkily awkward, shy, teenage-sort-of tall man isn't gone at all; he's just being 'professional', at the moment. Harvey's still Harvey and Cleveland's still Cleveland, right now they're just a little trapped in the middle of a deadly issue. For the record, animated series Harley drives me insane…and Harvey doesn't have that much humor in her XD

Thus, there will be no ultimate shift in the spectrum (I was worried I'd go off the handle and do that, myself, ha ha) but thanks to all of you and I just had to reassure. It's getting near the end, but thinks are about to get amusing with Batman involved, soon. On with the show!

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

I've successfully shredded the dress up enough to be 'super villain' material (what super villain's costume isn't at least a little complicated?) and decide to find some way to hem this stupid thing. My haphazard job leaves it decently tighter, but I'm also ninety percent sure the hem will collapse. I know nothing of needles or threads or anything of the sort. I failed home economics, after all. I can barely string shoe-laces through holes.

The flimsy mask covers the upper part of my face, at least, and I wonder how long Cleave's been sitting there in his eternal inability to sit still. For good measure, I stash the Ritalin in a little clutch-bag I have in my closet. The gun and the harpy stay in my pocket. I will not admit that, next to the knife, I still have the little note that says 'Girly' with an obscene, kindergartener-drawn heart. I ignore the brief feeling of warm-fuzzy. It's too irritating to pay attention to.

I search his drawers but all I come up with are rows and rows of boxers. Sheep, hearts, cows, stars, little guitar hero controllers, rainbows, ice cream cones (these I fondly pause at, for just a moment) and a pair patterned with Joker cards. I sarcastically ask myself how original he can get.

And there I find it. White paint in a little jar, kohl by the dozen bottles and a few tubes of cherry red lipstick. Once you see him, your first thought is 'oh God, that monster!' However, that thought is brought down several pegs when you realize 'that monster' is just the product of the cosmetics corporation. I smear some on without the use of a mirror, which will inevitably lead to uneven makeup, but I can't help but wonder if that's my supreme worry right now.

I stuff all of it into the clutch-bag and ask myself how this manages to happen to me.

I pull the menial band out of my hair and fluff at it, muttering to myself insistently. If I'm going to _be_ a super villain, or whatever it is Cleave calls himself, I have to _look_ the part, don't I? For a second, I can't help but ask myself if this makes me seriously insane, but the thought's shoved out of my mind faster than I imagine.

Well—I pause in the doorway, sigh deeply, and give an awkward wave to the television. And that nasty couch, I've had some good naps on that dilapidated piece of shit.

Goodbye, room one 104.

Room 103 can fuck itself.

Stupid Bat-signal.

Cheap piece of shit.

(An elevator ride, several Gotham blocks and me reminding myself how badly I walk in heels later)

When I make it back to the abandoned pile of depressing dust and dirt, there's Cleveland. Pacing, pacing, pacing, playing with his fingers, and without warning he's on me like a jungle-cat. I pause, tense, before I feel his thumb swipe at the corner of my mouth and he mutters nervously, "You…uh…you gotta little—uh…"

I—I got a little? I pause, and my eyebrow slants anxiously. What is he doing, _correcting my makeup? Is he serious?_

My eyes widen and I choke out in a nervous, strangled ramble, "Can you not fuckin' do that?!"

A slow, sly grin spreads along his mouth and the scars wrinkle in delight. His eyes dance, I swear it reflects through the rings of raccoon-black around them, and he speaks casually, flouncing back a step to examine, "Well, well, well, I guess I can take the kinky comment back before, you _do_ wanna play—"

"Not for you."

"Aw, girly, you're goin' and hurtin' my feelings—"

"You don't have those, remember? Anyway, I wouldn't dress up like a two-bit asshole for anyone else, so this is the way I see it—"

I explain it, step by step. Clearly, Cleave's the most wanted crook in Gotham by this point and, at this rate; he's bound to be caught. So what I'm going to do is—yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'm going to turn myself in for the good of a murderous nut-case. I tell him that if Gotham can forget heroes so quickly, what makes villains different? So it's up to me.

"You gave me the tools," I watch his eyes as he follows me, his expression glimmering with amuse and subtle pride, "I'm usin' 'em."

"What, toots—so you're gonna blatantly show up all fancy and say you were behind _everything?_ Hah! They'll never believe you! Some _dim bulb_ like you? We all know I'm the _buuuuuh-rains _of this operation."

I roll my eyes and try to think of a place I can cram the gun. In my belt, I guess, the waist belt that holds the outfit together will do well enough. The knife can go there, too, and the laughing gas toy I can just hold as some form of 'threat'.

So.

I'm Gotham City's newest criminal.

I'm Gotham City's newest four-foot-ten, semi-red-haired, awkward criminal.

As I go to step out the door and into the hot-wired Oldsmobile, I hear him yell after me, "If it was my life or yours, toots, I'd pick my own!"

"Funny!" I yowl, and slide into the driver's seat. There's a reckless abandon I've gained, and I'm convinced I could care less if I kick it or not, "I'd pick yours, too!"


	25. Selfish Sacrifice

When I wake up, my eyes burning, somehow, I realize that I'm uncomfortable and hot. Really hot, it's really warm in here. Also, to add, Gotham City in the middle of the summer minus an air conditioner is somewhere around a hundred degrees.

And when I try to get up, to move, to do anything at all—Oh, this is getting better. My wrists are tied. And when my eyes fully focus (as much as they can, anyway, I left my glasses in the car. Not a very good super villain with glasses…well, in my analysis, anyway), there's a giant mutant rat in front of me.

A giant mutant rat who I recognize as the—

_Oh shit. _I'm fucked.

See, this is where the plan goes wrong.

Check, get to MCU. Check, rattle off like a weirdo-freak and prove Cleave's—the _Joker's_ plan was _my_ entire fault. Check—get knocked out by a blow to the back of the head. The fatal flaw in my plan? I didn't plan the plan out _after_ throwing myself at the mercy of the long arm of the law.

Or rather, the long _wing_ of the law.

"Where's the Joker?"

The only thing is, just as always, when the Bat speaks, I can't understand a word. It's strained gravel mixed with hard cement and rolled across miles of tar. It's harsh to my ears, impossible to hear, and when my eyes roll upward I find that the fabric obscuring them makes it irritating to see.

"I'm sorry, are you trying to speak German? I didn't quite catch that."

His huge hand claps onto my shoulder and he leans over me, his eyes narrowed. His crystal blue, familiar eyes. I want to accuse him for selling my ass out at a masquerade ball to use as some play-hostage. I want to tell him he deserves to suffer for haplessly tossing my life into some sick version of pot-luck so he could play cat-and-mouse with my next door neighbor.

But suddenly, all of that seems meagerly insignificant in the realization that a man-bat is going to crush my trachea into submission.

"Where is _the Joker?"_ his teeth clench, but I only stare up at him with a half scowl half sneer.

"Up your ass." I quip, calmly, and realize suddenly that those words were the biggest mistake of the century.

Without warning his deadly plastic-grip latches onto the side of the chair and I find my entire world turned upside down. Well, I find my plan turned right on its ear—and I recognize this with the explosion of pain at the side of my head. The chair bounces, but I'm like a stuck pig straight for the slaughter. Bat-ass just roars again, "Where is he?! Where is that _monster!?_"

My ability to see just swims into a thousand different sections, and then goes fleeting back into my own form of visual distortion. My head throbs, but I ignore it. Because pain is only the memory of what was once my life. As if I really sound like that. Damn emo kids.

"Tell me exactly _where_ he is." The big bad bat rasps, and I just glare up at him exhaustedly. I try to get my lip to twitch, wondering if I shouldn't manage half a grin.

"I told you, bat-boy, hell, do you got some kinda wax in your damn ears? He's up your _ass."_

Apparently, my punishment is a huge black boot to my abdomen and I feel the back of my chair splinter when I'm forced against it. I wheeze, and I make a frustrated little sound. I feel like my intestines have just caved. Now we're cooking with grease; enemy to enemy.

I'd say there was a sick thrill in this if I didn't know it was all against me. I don't have a chance in ever-loving hell, now.

The damage he's doing isn't terminal and he knows it. He can gauge every hit with flawless finesse, and that's working out of my favor. It only means he can torture me to my breaking point, and know precisely where to stop. I stopped playing chess a long time ago, now it's battleship we're toying with.

"_Where?!"_ He roars, incessant, and his fist slams onto the interrogation table. There's a harsh sound, and where his plastic-enforced (see: titanium-laden-kevlar) fist has so mightily stricken, there's a horrible little indent.

Fun-fact: I'll die before I give him up.

Let's look at the logic from my point of view for a minute, shall we?

My life in Gotham City totals up to a tally of nothing. I know no one. I'm a blip on the radar, I'm a useless little ant in an entire colony. I have no real life, no attachments, none but _one._

If I live and Cleave's out of here, where does my purpose go? What? I spend the rest of my life in abysmal nothingness and wallow in the filth of Gotham, all the while knowing I was the end of my best friend?

Don't think me the hero.

Not even for a fucking second.

Don't stick that bullshit next to my name, like a saint, a twisted form of martyr. Don't flip to the tails side of the coin and say I'm doing this because I want to save someone else's life.

If I die, I don't lose a damn thing. I lose an existence that I don't really care about in the first place.

Look at me, sounding all depressed.

It's all you can do when bat-shit's cramming a boot the size of Tucson into your stomach and you're lurching and writhing and doing all you can to get your mind away from the here and now.

Oh no, we're not playing heroes and villains, no, not now.

Who's the hero and who's the villain here, anyway, _Batman?_

Neither of our methods are so _pure_, are they?

There's a line that blurs between who the monsters and saviors of Gotham are. This line split down the middle when Battsy went crazy, and now he's spilling right over into the villain's side. I won't lie that I half-believe that Cleveland's got this working of his own doing, a slow, tumultuous destruction of the Batman's soul.

Once again, don't I look like the decoy?

I certainly feel more like the pile of dangling beef in the butcher's shop. They pulverize that shit, don't they?

It's within a few moments of nasty back-and-forth that I realize something, and I see a glimmer behind the Bat's shoulder as he faces me. His hands curl erratically and sporadically into fists, his teeth clench and his eyes spark pure ice.

I choke something out, and from a previous shot to the mouth I can taste the copper that lines my putridly now-ruby teeth. I never realized how thick blood was, but it makes me panic in my pathetic, prone position on the floor. A brief gurgle rises in my throat.

"Wait! Wait! I have something to _tell _you," He stops, staring down at me until his lip curls back into a horrific snarl and his jaw leaps like some small, deadly animal.

In slow triumph, I rasp, "Hey, Battsy, what's purple and green and white all over?"


	26. Curious Betrayal

Welcome to…the last chapter. Oh yes, I promised I would take this to the very end and oh, am I ever doing it. Fret not, my dears! There's an Epilogue after this with good ol' Cleveland again. Who else is missing him? I am. Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who kept me going at writing this, all of you really were more than enough inspiration to continue on. You guys really are purely awesome, and I'm going to try to make this as meaningful as I can for all of you :D On with the show!

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"SURPRISE!"

When I notice Cleave, he smacks a gloved hand onto the Bat's shoulder, whirls him and sends him reeling with a sudden punch to the face. I keep staring from my horizontal, dizzy position. My head feels unhinged, throbbing, a senseless beat. I can't swallow because, if I do, the taste of the blood will gag me and I'll more than likely desperately have to puke. So really, all I can do is stare at it pool beneath me.

"Oh, _Battsy_, you've been a naughty little boy, haven't you!?"

Everyone's steps become a merry-go-round of pretty colors. I can see Cleave's weird, teathered brown shoes and his…decidedly repulsive purple-and-green argyle socks. It is only Cleveland's who would wear argyle; _no one_ wears argyle. _Ever._

Without warning, I'm whirled vertical by, thank gracious fucking God, Cleveland. He keeps his hands tensed at the back-board of the chair, the half-splintered back-board, and I can literally feel him rock against it.

Did I mention I hate it when he stands behind me?

Always. Fuckin'. _Breathing._

"Exhibit…uh…_A,_" He sneers casually, and I feel his fingers entangle with my hair, playing with it in mock affection. I can't believe this is the man I'm protecting, "Miss _Haaaaarvey_ Tinkle. Now, Batty-bat-bat, do you think she deserves to be punished for the things that _I_ so obviously did? Oh ho ho, bad boy, bad boy! You're beating the wrong clown, buck-_o."_

As he goads him, I can only stare, utterly helpless in my restraints and sickened confusion as the Batman becomes angrier and angrier. The look in his eyes is blind; Cleave's playing him like a matador waving some red cape at a bull.

"What is she, Joker? Your new _pet?" _he spits it, the word, like it's a venomous acid burrowing in his throat. His fists are shaking, and in a mildly concussed daze I really pray I won't be hit again.

"Matter uh fact, you win the grand prize, Battsy! She just so happens to be—uh..." He licks at his lips again, making that repulsive sound that makes me shudder. I have to see if his tongue is split down the middle, if I survive this.

His hand, cold in the plum, leather gloves caresses at my jaw and he purrs cheekily, "She's my new little toy. Isn't she pretty, Battsy? Maybe not what I…uh…_eee­-xpected_, but she does her job _so_ well. Don'cha, girly?"

That's right. Play word-games with me when I have a mouthful of blood. That'll work out, stupid.

"Well, she doesn't seem to feel like buzzing in," He pats at my cheek, and then briskly wanders to the other side of the room. His expression is crazed, but his posture is collected, a childish swagger that's injected infinitely with pride only a man who fancies himself a God could feel, "Go on, _Batman. _Kill her."

His grin widens, those strange, yellow teeth bared. He looks more like an animal than a monster.

"Beat her…ah—little skull in. Come on! But, wait—"

A finger goes up. I feel myself break out into a cold sweat, because I'm beginning to get nervous, way in the pit of my stomach. Did I do this for nothing? Is he going to feed me to this guy?

I don't think I've ever felt this bad in my life. I've had the hell beaten out of me by a number of guys (see: I fail at relationships), but this, right here, tied to this chair is rock-bottom.

"—If you do that, oh, no, no, no, if you _doooo_ that." His tongue whips across his lips again, lingering there in some underhanded taunt. His eyes glitter, I can practically see them, hell-fire from under sooty piles of black. "Oh, if you _do_ that, what makes you better'n me, big bad bat?"

The Batman keeps watching, complacent, suddenly, to Mister Clown's words. Cleave just smirks and I swear I feel like he's a vampire about to ravage my throat. There are chills, ill feelings that desperately claw at my spine. I think I'm going to be getting this sensation a lot from now on.

His hands grip at my hair again, but suddenly, they lightly pull at the reddish roots. He tucks his chin there, humming, bouncing gleefully in a comical sway, "You gonna punish girly for having feelings, Battsy?"

I feel decidedly sick to my stomach by this point, and when I struggle against the bonds Cleave releases a low warning hiss that basically demands I not move, and grips at my hair a little tighter. I want to get out. I'm claustrophobic and he knows this, and the remembrance that I'm restrained is starting to settle into my warped brain. And if I don't get out, I'm going to panic.

"Something like that, something like what you've done to her, that is _inexcusable_—"

He claps loudly, parading calmly from left to right. His grin is effervescent, his painted lips twitching in merriment. It starts to come to light that I'm the piece of meat between two _very_ big dogs, and just to prove a point they'll both tear me apart.

Three.

Two.

One.

Now is appropriate time for panic.

I rattle again, against the thick rope that winds around me, but no matter how hard I shove or force they don't even loosen. I'm starting to feel closed in. I'm starting to feel very, very closed in. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going to be crushed by something very large. I'm in the _middle_ of something very large.

"Oh, shh, shh, _shh, _Harvey-cakes, _shhhhh…_"

I want him to get his hand off my mouth, but I'm sure biting it would only trigger a bad reaction on my end of the line. I have no desire to bring myself more willing pain. The Bat stares in calm detachment, but I keep trying to get out.

My half-strangled sounds fall on my own deaf ears, but I feel the merciless leather press a little harder against me.

"What do you plan to do, anyway?"

"Ah hah…hah…ho…hee…I don't _plan_ to do anything, but if an opportunity comes along—ah, _weeeelllll…."_

I wish I could manage to yell at him, but there's that feeling of my throat closing. I don't care how sore I am, but I need to get away. My own mind is clawing at the walls of my head.

"She's not a criminal, Joker. What makes you think she'd even make a good accomplice?"

"Because my little _Haaaarvey_ learns so quickly. Every good villain needs a side-kick, after all, don't they? That's—uh…well, that's why Lex Luthor never beat ol' Super-boy. Lex didn't have anybody to back him up!"

That laugh rings loudly in my ears, and I flinch drastically at the feeling I get. It's a tingle in my chest, and I recognize that I'm damned forever. I've signed my soul away to the devil without a heed to anyone's word, I've openly given myself over to Satan himself.

And why have I done this?

Simply because I was _lonely._

I was lonely, and I found the wrong _person._

I found the wrong _monster_ is more like it.

I fade away, so slowly, deprived of air and the ability to calm down, and the very last words float away on my ears. They sound so empty, so lost, like a faint yell above the crowd—

"Shh, shh, _shh_, girly…"

And my eyes roll back and, before I know it, I've lost the struggle.


	27. Epilogue: Phil Collins

So here it is, ladies and gentle-men, the Epilogue to this endless project of mine. I've gotta thank all of you for your devoted assistance in this and I'd go on a crazy name-fest if I wasn't afraid I'd leave some people out XD I will tell you, go read **Saviors and Hellion Smiles **by **Harlequin Sequins** and take a glance at **If Things Come Alive **by **Anatomy of Kisses**. There's some pretty neat potential in that second story to build to, and the first one's just incredible to the umpteenth degree. Also, carouse **ACleverName**'s profile because I've never read amazing Jonathan Crane fanfiction before, until I checked it out. Thanks to everybody, including **ACleverName **and **Othello 101**, who are both radical artists who made me some Harvey/Cleave stuff that I adore. Anyway, without further ado, here's the Epilogue. On with the show!

XxXxXxXxXx

Everything spins when I come to. There's a sense of pure, blossoming pain in my entire abdomen and all I know is that there's a rainbow colored fan wildly oscillating above me. Of course, I assume that my lack of sight has to do with the fact that my glasses aren't on my face.

And there it is, ladies and gents, the man of the hour, the guest of honor. Manic laughter fills my ears, and I sit up from the mattress that feels like a cave floor.

"_Goooooooooood _morning, sunshine!"

"Hello, fuck-face."

There are unmistakable smears of white that stand, blotchy and repulsive in my vision. His makeup is running; there are little cracks that give way to pale skin. The creases in his forehead run like deep, ancient rivers. If only I could focus for more than five seconds.

"Someone's got their hot-pink underpants in a complete knot. You're hurting my feelings again, Harvey-cakes."

"You fucking threw me to the bats, Cleave."

"Oh, no, no, no, _no._ See, if you die, then _who will help me find the mouses, George?"_

I pause, and raise an eyebrow, crinkling my nose in distasteful confusion. I…don't want to know what that means, but I have a faint inkling like he'll explain it anyway.

"What did you think, I was…uh….gonna let you go, just like that?" His eyes roll and I notice the makeup around his mouth, in particular, the ruby-red-hooker-shade, has faded from all the licking. I always did find myself amused by that face, "Pu-_leeeeease_, girly. I've got a perfectly dandy little tool, what kind of _ig-knee-oh-ramous_ let's something like that just…uhh—go?"

…are the walls around me neon orange?

This place is repulsive?

"Where the fuck am I?"

"My bachelor _paaaaaad-uh._" He enunciated the 'd' into a rough sound, and I cringe when I realize the ceiling is lime green, the shag carpeting is melon-shaded and the sheets are canary yellow.

"…Did hippies used to fucking live here?"

"Nothin' gets by you, toots!" His head falls back ,and he throws my glasses into my lap. With a sudden panic I realize that the Harlequin dress is hanging limply on a hideous, gnarled chair a few feet away, and I'm back in my ripped jeans and a worn _Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band_ t-shirt. My distressed thought is—

Did he _change_ me?

Oh fucking _God._

Without warning, I find that a hand crushes me against the wall, nearly shattering my shoulder and I try to inhale but the breath is literally sucked out of my mouth. My spine throbs with the vengeance of a thousand enraged bruises and I gasp for air with a sudden slap and a "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, CLEVELAND?!"

He backs off, almost in one movement. He's too vicious and quick and hard and hot and now I've got _his makeup all over my face. _

I heave for breaths, frightened and jumpy out of my head, and he twitches almost uncertainly. Those puppy-dog eyes are things I can never shy from, and he just mutters, "You…uh—you uh—you…got some lipstick on uh..."

I wipe at it, hasty and repulsed, suddenly, and he purrs with a subtle satisfaction. Before I know it, he's laughing hysterically and wandering away from the bed. With morbidly amused fascination, I notice that he's wearing boxers patterned with tiny, clever Batman insignias. He's drawn, with a poorly-done sharpie, little, round black circles that look like eyes and tiny red ellipticals that look like mouths all over them.

I morbidly just remind myself that, for what feels like the sixth time this week, I've been molested by a transvestite with a sense of humor.

And with a dread in the pit of my stomach that I'll spend the rest of my life with this man, I realize the worst sound is emanating from another room—

_You called me from the room in your hotel. All full of romance for someone that you met. And telling me how sorry you were, leaving so soon, and that you miss me sometimes when you're alone in your room. Do I feel lonely too?_

My eyes roll, and the horror floods back to me in seconds, along with Cleveland's loud, obnoxiously nasal tone.

Phil Collins.


End file.
